Distraught Detective
by Shelby41010
Summary: Sherlock finally decides to tell his biggest secret to John. But what happens if Sherlock ends up in the face of rejection? WARNING:There are/will be adult themes, torture, triggers, self harm topics; read with caution if any of this bothers you. ( Future Johnlock)
1. Dear John

**Warnings:** There are adult themes mentioned in this chapters. Triggers, mentions of self harm. Please don't read if you are sensitive to any of these kind of things.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything in here, sadly. I wrote this based off BBC Sherlock. I did not copy anyone's fanficton to any of my knowledge, nor did I intentionally copy. I respect each fanfic writer out there.

**A/N**: This is my very first fanfic. Recently i've started going through the chapters to update my grammar and spelling fails. Please enjoy :)

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Chapter One: Dear John

The pain was unbearable. Daggers bleached in torture sliced at sherlock's heart. The aftershocks of rejection drummed against his skull. John's poisoned words still fresh in his mind.

"God... Sherlock! Sometimes I just... I can't deal with you. What kind of arse does this? You such a FREAK!" His words violent and infectious. John had spat them at Sherlock. He'd only tried to express himself, the only way he knew how. But John had tossed it all back in his face; leaving him to climb out of the rubble.

Freak. The name that had always been a popular demon haunting him. He thought he'd learned to stuff it inside a file in his mind palace. Lock it away in the abyss of his basement- Deleting the memory. When Donovan or society called him this, it seemed to create no effect. This time, John's assault of freak, wouldn't file. It lie basking in his expansive mind. As if flaunting his failure to not care.

"No..." Stuttered Sherlock.

His steady violin hands trembling. Body shaking without permission. Left alone to dwell in on himself the darkness emerged. Knees buckling, he dropped to the floor. His slender, confident body escaping him, leaving a crippled mortal. Tagging along for the ride, his palace walls began to crumble. Cracks appearing, shifting the balance of sanity. Over twenty years it took to build it, but less that and hour in total, for massive destruction to embark. Raking his nails over his face, the every so blissful sting crept onto his face. A blood piercing scream erupted from his lungs. His throat throbbing and tender from the beating it'd suffered.

_Freak... Loser...Fag...Douche..._ The explosion of insults bombarded his head. _Dull the pain_ was the only coherent thought to reach him._ Arse... Dick... Freak...Freak...Dull. The. Pain._

Crawling to his room, he enclosed himself within its security. Extending a shaky arm underneath his mattress, his fingers skimmed a box. Extracting it, a wave of relief began to emit itself among him. His hand glided across the oak box he now possessed. It was his old friend he never thought he'd reunite and now it was now once again accompanying him.

Inside the box the sides were draped with velvet. His saviors lie caressed inside it: Two sharp razor blades and a scalpel, hardly used; A dull razor blade, rust and dried crimson laced the edge of the blade; Next to his tools were his highs, the sweet powder of cocaine and morphine. At last there lie a picture. A picture of John. He stood next to Sherlock, smiles plastering both of their faces. It was the last defense before the dangerous hum of nothing consumed him. Weather he choose to embrace his saviors, or not, both outcomes would end badly. So Sherlock knew his choice. Gripping johns picture he took one long last look and the tore it in half.

"Ello old friends," cracked Sherlock. "I'm back."

Earlier that Day:

"John, I'm sorry. I can't date you anymore. It's just so empty." Stated Sarah.

"Empty?" Questioned John.

"Well, not exactly. But John, you spend all your time with Sherlock. It's like he's your girlfriend and not me."

"I can change. Spend less time with him and more with you." Pleaded John, desperation clear throughout his voice.

"No, I'm sorry. You two are too inseparable. Plus, no man can ever really change. You'd be no different."

Arguing was pointless and he knew it. Pulling out a few pounds, he tossed it onto the coffee shop table.

"I'll be seeing you round Sarah." Sulked John trying to show a smile.

"Yeah," she responded grimly.

The shop door dinged as he left. A torrent of emotions swelled inside him. Sadness for Sarah; He'd miss her, she was a great person- Loneliness without her. One feeling overpowering them all was anger. Anger towards Sherlock. Sarah had left him because of his neediness. Its just like him to soak up all of his time, he even horded his emotions all for him to toy with. How... him like. If it wasn't for him he could still be with her. Straitening his back into a defensive stance, John began home. He would give Sherlock a piece of his mind.

Meanwhile:

Today was the day Sherlock would tell John. Tell John he loved him. Love, such a simple word easily define by the most normal and dull people. But to Sherlock, it was an unbelievably complex word unable to be defined- until john. He couldn't seem to dull the feeling he got when john was around. When john was in the flat with him, he could practically smell john. The sensation almost driving him mad. He missed his dear doctor when he'd leave for the surgery, or Sarah's. He practically sneered at the name. He hated Sarah. She could take his John. The thought of them together, in bed... Sex... Sickened him. But today there was no time for that.

As soon as John left for a social visit, most likely with Sarah, he began to unravel his plan. He dressed in his purple silk shirt and new trousers. The most erotic apparel on him, thanks to the brilliant deduction he'd gathered from watching Molly's reactions to him. The shirt strained against his chest, buttons pulled tight. Pants curving to his legs perfectly.

Next was the flat. He was to clean up his experiments he'd heard John complaining about perilously, and wash the dirty dishes. He was sure John would appreciate this. He wanted John to know that he'd be hear to help no matter what. This would prove it. After cleaning, Sherlock was bored to no end. But, he must finish. Finishing up, he set the table for dinner. 5pm. John would be home soon. Time to cook.

Later:

John stepped through the door. He could smell something cooking. Ms. Hudson must be upstairs preparing dinner, odd. Making his way up the stairs he could hear a sound. Humming? Turning into his and Sherlock's flat he halted. The lanky brunette was serving food at the table. He had cooked.

"Oh John!" Piped Sherlock. "Welcome home. How was your day?"

The low baritone was enough to rattle John from his thoughts. "Oh yes, err... Hello."

"I've made us dinner. I thought you'd like it."

Taking in the surroundings John felt his anger replenish. Candles were lit around the room- around a clean room. On the table placed in between two plates was a rose settled inside a vase. John's favorite. A wisp of romance hung in the air. He fumed inside. This was all a joke about Sarah dumping him. Sherlock could deduce anything! So why the hell couldn't he have been able to predict this.

"Is this a joke Sherlock?" Snarled John. The fumes of his anger leaking out into his words.

"No." He replied suddenly still and stone faced. "Why would it be?"

"Im sure you know. You can deduce anything. Your Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. He knows all!"

"John... I... I just wanted to make you happy."

"Oh, so now you're saying you did know?" John snapped twisting Sherlock's words.

"John..."

"JOHN? Is that all your brain can think to say? Sarah dumped me because of all the stunts you pull, just like this. You and your obsessive clingyness." Snapped John unable to keep anything caged in. "God... Sherlock! Sometimes I just... I can't deal with you. What kind of arse does this? You such a FREAK!"

"John..." Stuttered Sherlock, his face drawn pale. Arms draped uselessly by his sides.

"Don't say my damn name again. And yeah Sherlock, I said it. You're a_ freak_."

With his last word shooting from John's mouth he headed upstairs to his room. The flat no longer having a hint of romance. Bitter darkness crept in from all sides of Sherlock. Movement needed, but unavailable, Sherlock stood paralyzed. His once well known life crumbling from beneath his feet.

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*Thanks for reading! Hope you liked it. Will update Asap.


	2. A Heart Just For John

Warnings: This chapter containst self-harm. Please don't read if this bothers you. All other warnings still apply to this story.

A/N: Thanks everyone who like and followed me/my story! It means a lot. I hope you like this chapter :)

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Chapter Two: A Heart Just For John.

Sherlock leaned against his bed holding his choice of serenity palmed inside his hand. The glint of the blade shinning up at him ready for action. He needed an outlet that was undetectable by the simple human mind. Drugs were out of the question but his blades certainly were not. Gripping the metal hard, the hostile words of his past ran unfiltered through his mind. A crimson liquid dripped from his hand, the blade tearing at his flesh. The release wasn't enough, he needed more.

Fumbling for his shirt sleeve he yanked it up. Not caring for his beloved shirt anymore as a tear rifled through the silence. His quivering hand took hold of the blade trying to still themselves. Setting the cool metal against his forearm he drug it across. A moan escaped past Sherlocks lips. The haunting yet beautiful activity just barley pulling him back into sanity. Slicing himself more his body became a memorial of his pains.

Running out of room to craft on his forearm, he striped to his shorts. For John, his lovely John, he'd make an art piece for him. The thought of John's name, Sent the everlasting torrent of vile names back into his mind. Carving into his thigh, pain stifled him. The dull trance enveloping him. Blood trickled down his arm and leg. The red substance glistening with brightness; eventhough he was in the deepest hell hole yet. Crafted into his thigh was a heart, a deep slash crossing it out. A slash that was created much to deep.

No longer did Sherlock care, his life had disappeared with John. The only feelings the sociopath had once held escaping; through the fresh cracks between them. Going back to Lastrade for a case wouldn't help. John had always gone with, making it bearable without his highs. He had also bruised Sherlock where he'd always tried to avoid being hurt. So Sherlock stayed in his bedroom. Basking in the muffled buzz.

Startling awake Sherlock noticed the sun creeping through his shaded window- he'd slept all night. Stretching his stiff limbs he winced. Cuts littered his arms. Dried blood outlined each new mark. His thigh's mark had stopped bleeding, but hadn't begun to close up. He'd probably need stitches, but there was no way he'd be asking John to help or go to the hospital. The rejection from John still piercing his tainted heart.

He made his way towards the bathroom with a limp in his step; warm blood begging to trickle down his leg. A slight throbbing pulse began at his carved heart. Peaking through the door, he was met with silence. There was no sign of John or . Padding into the bathroom he clicked the door shut. Slinking against the tub he pulled out the first aid kit

Thoughts began to consume him. John had put the first aid kit under the sink. Was is it just for his benefits? Or was it for Sherlocks to? If it was for his, john must have cared for Sherlock at some point. What had he done to make John hate him like the everyone else he encountered? Pushing the succumbing thoughts aside, Sherlock began to tend to his wounds.

**Later:**

*Buzz*

Got a new case. Need your help. **-GL**

Is it Dull? I cannot be inconvenienced by you simple minded humans. **-SH**

No Sherlock. I bet that you will find it most interesting. Shall I text you the address? **-GL**

If you must.**-SH**

Sherlock was beaming with excitement although he'd led Lestrade to believe differently. Sherlock hadn't dared to tread into the living room. A reminded of what had happened the previous night, not welcomed. But a case would be the perfect distraction. Hurrying through the flat he snatched his coat and scarf whisking down the steps.

Police lights danced infront of Sherlock's eyes as he arrived. Tossing some money to the cabbie, he hurriedly made his way over to the scene.

"Oy', Freaks here!" Announced Donovan loudly.

Sherlock couldn't help but wince at her words. Johns reflecting instead of hers.

"Hello Donovan." Sneered Sherlock passing her by. "I have no time for insignificant comments such as yours today."

"That's the best you can come up with? Where's your follower Freak? Hmmm? Did he finally decide to leave you?"

Her comments had finally hit home. Whiplashing his already hurt character. With his face drawn pale, he halted. His limber body shuddering at her words. The first mistake he'd made letting his emotions bleed through.

"Did I finally hit something?" She snickered, Anderson joining in with laughter. "Didn't think the sociopath had emotions."

Pivoting on his heels he scowled at her. But kept walking, straight into Lestrade.

"Hey, Sherlock." The man said holding up his hands. "Watch where you're going."

"Uh... Yeah. Where's the body?"

"This way." Directed lestrade.

Sherlock was limping- favoring his right leg. What happened? It was probably nothing, but... He didn't defended himself against Donovan. That had never happened before. It was about John too. He was always so protective of him. Lestrade was a detective after all, he couldn't get to far off on his assumptions. Sucking down his pride that was sure to be beaten by Sherlock. Lestrade decided to ask a question.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"What happened between you and John?"


	3. Life Without You i'd be Nothing

Warnings: Mostly just fallout to help build up drama in further chapters.

A/N: Again, Thanks everyone for the follows, it makes me happy inside! Comments really do help and if anyone has any recommendations? criticisms? All are welcome. I will try to come out with a long chapter next time, but I needed to get this one up. :) Enjoy!

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Chapter Three: Life Without you i'd be nothing.

"Absolutely nothing! Why would anything be wrong?"

"Sherlock..." Sighed Lestrade. "Something's wrong. I may not be the worlds only consulting detective, but I can still deduce things. I didn't become an inspector for nothing."

Sherlock paused thinking of a non fallible answer. His mind raced digging through files trying to come up with a plausible response. Coming up short of good social skills, he spat an excuse.

"Well, If you must know, John and I are fine. We just had a bet and unfortunately, I... Lost." Informed Sherlock standing up straight; body looming over Lestrades. "As... Looser... I cannot say anything cruel to anyone."

Sherlock answer was sketchy, especially seeing as how easily he admitted to being a loser. It would have to do for now. Sherlock wasn't going to admit anything more serious here, if at all.

"Alright then. What about the body?"

"I'm deducing!" Snapped Sherlock.

"Alright. I'll leave you to it then."

Lestrade exited the room leaving Sherlock alone with the corpse. He went about collecting vital information. Female, earlier twenties, hair dresser, sleeps around. The body lie in a face down position- No significance there. Blow to the back of the head, looks as if it were from a pipe. He stood up satisfied with the information he'd collected. Rubbing his leg wetness touched his hand.

"Crap..." Muttered Sherlock.

Blood shimmered on his hand. A stain forming onto his pants. Apparently his patch job wasn't good enough. Warm liquid beginning to trickle down his leg. He needed to get it patched fast. His cut must have been deeper than he'd first concluded. His question was how did he miss the bleeding before now? Turning from the body he marched out of the murder room. His coat billowing behind him.

"I'm done Lestrade!" Hollered Sherlock trying to exit the scene.

"Hey! Not so fast. I need to talk to you."

Not what Sherlock expected. He certainly wouldn't engage in this 'game' of tag, but he also couldn't let Lestrade see that blood seeping through his pants. That would definitely not do. Snapping his head to the side he glared at Lestrade. Keeping his feet bolted to the pavement, so as not to flaunt his bleeding leg.

"Sherlock. Can you tell me anything about what you so 'brilliantly' deduced this time?"

Huffing in exasperation, he explained what he knew about the corpse and possible leads he had come up with.

"Its just obvious Lestrade, I don't see why you always need me. She's a hairdresser who slept around. By the sounds of it she probably just slept with the wrong person or got mixed up in something bad. But I'll need the lab results from you tomorrow and then I will be able to sum up this case for you."

"Thank you Sherlock."

Nodding his head in response he began his way back to 221b. Slipping underneath the caution tap Sherlock's mind snapped in relization. Blood loss effects were begging to take its toll. How... Inconvenient. Sauntering down the street the gravel below his feet slowly began to blur. The cracks meshing together in an abstract manner. His feet tripping each other the farther he pressed on.

"Ay! What's up with the Freak?" He could hear Donovan yell from the void of smudged commotion behind him.

Making one final trip the world flipped over him, his body collapsing on the ground. His chest rapidly heaving in air; Lungs constricting him of the much needed air. Bodies began to swarm him. Each person an array of different colors.

"Sherlock?"

It was Donovan. Her hands sweeping in front of his face.

"Mmmm..." Responded Sherlock.

"Your bleeding you Nit. Lestrade, call the paramedics! Sherlocks bleeding."

"Alright. Can you apply pressure to his wound?"

She was the last person Sherlock could see saving his life. In all, he was grateful for it though. He didn't have the will to do anything but sit and breath the air. A precious thing he'd put off to be tedious before. He no longer cared about anything happening. He just wanted to go home. For once, go home and sleep. He wanted John even though along with him he'd bring a tide full of rejection. He just wanted to see him one last time. What if John left before Sherlock could see him?

"Jesus Sherlock," Spoke a husky voice. - Lestrade.

Finally comprehending the situation at hand, he saw he was in the ambulance. His pants extracted from his body; Lestrade next to him. His fully decorated thigh out for the whole world to see. Glancing at it he saw his work. In the middle of the heart slashed by a line, lie a J. He didn't remember carving that... But then again. Life's a blur without John.


	4. John's Mistake

A/N: This took longer than expected because I wrote this while moving. I'm going to try and put some more action/drama in the next chapter. Happy reading :)

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Chapter Four: John's Mistake

Leastrade paced in the waiting room. His heavy foot falls drumming in the emptiness. Sherlock's mauled thigh was the only thing that he could process. What in gods name could provoke the detective into doing this. After moments of pacing Lestrade came to his senses. He needed to inform John.

*Ring... *Ring... *Ring...

"John Watson."

"Hey John, It's Lestrade."

"Hey Lestrade. Shouldn't you be calling Sherlock instead of me?" Questioned John, annoyance slipping into the tone of his voice.

"Well John, i'm calling in regards of him." Stammered Lestrade.

"What's he done now?"

"Well, It's not nessecarly what he's done into comparision to whats happened." Taking a moment to gather himself, he spoke. "John... he's in the hospital."

Shock slapped John across the face. Just moments ago he was so close to killing sherlock himself, strangling some sense into him. Now all he wanted was to be by his side. He yeared for Sherlocks safety.

"I'll be right there." With that john hung up and headed for the hospital.

After:

He'd jumped into the closets cab; nearly running four blocks trying to find one. Once finding one he sat fidgeting in the back seat often getting glares from the cabbie.

What could have happened to sherlock? He tried to place how he was when he saw him last, but he hadn't since the night before. John had been so fueled on rage he didn't give any pardon to Sherlock's welfare, or dare he say feelings, what so ever. He'd just used Sherlock as a verbal punching bag... So that couldn't be it could it? Maybe he went off on a case without John, seeing how he pissed he was.

So deep in thought john didn't hear the cabbie snarling at him that they'd arrived. Tossing more than enough cash into his hands john bolted into the hospital.

"Lestrade!" Hollered john skidding into the waiting room.

"Hey..." He responded.

His face washed of color and gloomy in the lighting. It almost looked at if Lestrade should be in here instead of sherlock.

"How bout you take a seat and I'll tell you what I know."

John dropped into the nearest chair without response, dreading what his friend would report.

"The doctors said he'd be physically fine. He is covered In lacerations though." Taking a deep breath he continued." John... This, isn't easy to say. The marks, they're self harm marks."

To say the least, John gasped. Sat with mouth agape. Sherlock the sociopath cutting?!

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, but John. That's not even the worst of it. - he... cut a shape, in his leg. On his left thigh is a heart slashed with a line. Next to that in small writing is a J."

John couldn't look at Lestrade. All the things john had said the previous night came flooding back to him. Guilt drowning him. Steady doctor hands changing to a wobbly mess.

"Lestrade. I did it."

"Did what? And why are you shaking?"

Peering up at the detective inspector, a silent tear trekked down John's cheek. His eyes foggy with shame.

"I... I called him a Freak."

"What now?"

"I didn't mean to... I don't think.." He sighed falling back lifeless into his chair.

Meanwhile:

He woke up to beeps. The familiar agonizing sound. Pealing his eye lids apart, he set to observing the room. Different shades of white dressing everything around him, except for one thing, Mycroft.

"Hello dear brother. I brought you flowers. I'm told they make one feel better when through a traumatic situation."

A grin crept onto Mycroft's face as he set the flowers down. There were a bundle of blood red roses. Mycroft's gift daunting him internally. Fear of what John would think arose. He would leave him for sure. Sherlock's mouth fell ajar as he attempted to respond.

"Oh Sherlock. I've told you caring is a disadvantage. Look where it got you. I thought we got passed this." He gestured to Sherlock's body stopping at his thigh.

"Did you tell John?" Pondered Sherlock finally finding his voice.

"No I didn't. Lestrade is out there with John probably telling him what he knows. I will not tell him anything unless I find it necessary."

He nodded in response.

"I expect more of you Dear Brother. Let's not tell mum, shall we." Mycroft smirked.

"That's cold far beyond you Mycroft. Now leave unless you are here to remove me from this dreadful place." Sherlock snarled.

With that said, he sauntered away. Exhaustion swept over sherlock. Never before had arguing with Mycroft had drained him so much. He hated feeling weak.

Later:

"Hey Sherlock."

"Mmmnn." He groaned into the makeshift pillow leaning up to see.

It was John! He'd come to visit. Maybe, he did care? But... Freak. That one word sending shivers down his body.

"Are you cold?" He asked sitting in the chair next to his bed.

"No, I'm fine."

John's hand drifted to find Sherlock's. When the two hands touched sherlock snatched his hand back; Cowering beneath the thin sheets. Fear rippling through him. The horror of Johns words echoing in his head. If he could say those things, what would stop him from doing it again? Or physically hurting him?

"Don't touch me John."

"Sherlock..." Dumbfounded by his actions toward him. He had done this."I'm sorry I won't touch you. About the other night... I didn't mean too. It's Just... Whatever you were doing wasn't a good time and it added to everything that was happening to me."

"Oh so it's my fault." Sherlock stammered like a deer in headlights. His heart could be heard cracking from inside him, crumbling to slivers of remains.

"No, that's not what I meant."

"I doubt you knew what you meant John." He snarled his name. "But If it isn't your fault, then I guess it does leave me, doesn't it. The great Sherlock Holmes is just a big fuck up ain't he!"

Flipping onto his side away from John he hugged his frail body. Trying to mentally caress himself.

"It seems that you don't want to talk then... I'll come back later."

No! No no no! That's the last thing sherlock wanted. He didn't want to loose John. If he left he was so much farther from being with him. Sherlock couldn't begin to fathom how to ask him to stay. He heard john recede. As soon as he left a small tear dripped onto his check. He needed John, he needed his tools; he needed a release.


	5. Escape

A/N: I tried to get this up ASAP. I've been using my phone to type this. The next chapter should have some action drama (and be longer)! Thanks for liking and flowing, it means a lot:)

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Chapter Five: Escape

He was drowning. And this time there was no life raft to save him. No longer could Sherlock float around on life in a buzz of John, for John had gone. He always looked up to John on his social skills, how easily he could read people's emotions. He new just what to do; how to console. This time John had left him. Sherlock couldn't take it. Double abandonment cascading down onto him. His mind a never seizing torrent. He needed to leave. Leave his bed, the hospital, just like John left him- for good.

He pulled IV line out from his arm. A trickle of blood spilling down his wrist. Sitting up, he plucked of his heart monitor. Making way out the door and down the hall, his hospital gown flowed behind him. His pale behind reveled to the public. He could heart the loud flat line from his room behind him. Skidding to the stairway, he fled down the steps.

He ran down the sidewalk. His thigh aching and head screaming. No thill extracted from the chase being flipped. He'd dodged the security guards no doubt ripping some of his stitches. Assuming he was correct, there was soon to be a BOLO out on him; Especially with Mycroft around. His gate soon turned for a worst -becoming lame. As his leg created a pulse of its own, Sherlock ducked into the nearest ally. His breath heavy and erratic. Finding the wall to the ally, he slowly slide down the brick collapsing on the grimy ground.

Glancing around he was able to decipher where he ended up. To his luck, in the area of witch his homeless network mainly thrived. Down the ally a little ways he noticed one of his networkers. He wasn't dumb. Sherlock knew he couldn't sit in the ally waiting for Mycroft to happen upon him. Certainly in the condition he was currently in. Bleeding, escaped self harmer.  
Sherlock couldn't help but wonder if the papers had caught wind of this yet. Calling out to the homeless worker, he summoned her over.

"Ello' there. Don't look to well do yah?" Spoke the homeless.

"No I suppose I don't. I'm in need of a favor. Do you think you could help me?"

"I will try my best best." Mr. Holmes, she replied smiling.

After:

"He what?" Questioned John.

He had received the call as soon as he walked into 221b. The guilt from Sherlock immediately gratifying as Lestrades words poured into his ears.

"John, He escaped the hospital. God knows how, but knowing Sherlock it couldn't have been hard. My team started tracking him. Fortunately for us, there was blood splatter found on some parts of the sidewalk. Though bad for Sherlock. We've tracked him down to the rougher parts of London..."

"I wanna come help search." Interjected John.

"Are you sure? I mean it's dangerous..."

John almost laughed at Lestrades statement. John would die for sherlock and run in any amount of danger for him.

"Lestrade, I'm fully capable of protecting myself. I was a vet, and doctor or not I know how to protect myself."

"Yes I know. It was an attempt at getting you to stay behind."

"Yeah." Grunted John.

"Well I suppose I'll come by round 10 minutes to get you. We can star our search then unless you have any objections."

"Sounds good." He replied clicking his phone shut.


	6. The Note

Warning: Swearing, Drug use, and adult topics.

A/N: I'd like to thank my brother for reading this along with everyone else, it means so much. :) I tried to get Sherlock's character down pretty well, Lemmie know what you all think? Good/ bad job? Enjoy!

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Chapter Six: The Note

Lestrade had just arrived at 221b to pick up John. Letting himself into the flat he started up the steps, each creaking slightly underneath his feet. Guiding his hand to the door he steeped into the consulting detectives shared living room. John and another man sat across from one another in their chairs. The intruder had sat himself in Sherlock's seat. He seemed to radiate a certain authority from him. As soon as he'd come to his conclusion, the man himself stood up as if to prove it.

"Hello Gregory Lestrade. I'm Mycroft Holmes. You may call me Mr. Holmes." He extended a hand. "As I've been informed you're in charge of Sherlock's return."

Lestrade returned the gesture completely awestruck at the man. "Are you Sherlock's brother?"

"Older brother, though it's of no importance right now. Please sit down." Offered Mycroft, although it seemed more of a demand than anything else. "Now Lestrade, I'm sorry to have to report but you are officially off the case of finding Sherlock. I have certain people whom are on the case above your level of police work."

"Why the hell did you come here to tell me and not just call?" Lestrade snarled. He wasn't just going to sit back and be tamed by this... man. Especially if it was a Holmes.

"Be patient. I did not call because of some aspects that shouldn't be found out by certain people, and it is a bit of a delicate topic. As you know, he did escape the hospital without permission. As of now, Sherlock Holmes is legally not mentally healthy."

"Oh."

"Oh is correct. Now, as I've informed John I will be taking Sherlock into a special location to be nursed into better health. While he is in the process no one will be able to visit him without my permission."

"That's like putting him in a damn insane asylum! You're basically torturing him!" Fumed Lestrade.

"I will in no way torture Sherlock for he is already torturing himself. He has had these problems before, and it needs to be dealt with Lestrade. It isn't just a drug relapse like before." Mycroft informed standing and sizing Lestrade up. "I know what needs to be done to help Sherlock. This isn't my first time dealing with his problems."

With those words spoke Mycroft walked towards the door. He picked up a black umbrella balanced on the frame and turned towards John.

"Remember what I said John. For this is my only warning."

Without waiting for a response he let himself out. Silence settled over the room like a too tightly wrapped blanket suffocating the user. Lestrade looked towards John whose head hung like it'd been beaten senseless. But in verbal terms, it may just have been. John finally raised his head to look at Lestrade. Tears had slipped out from his eyes. His wounded Dignity susceptible and ready for any kind of whiplash Lestrade was ready to fire at him.

"John. What did Mycroft tell you?"

John's lips stayed glued together. Molded by whatever secrets he wasn't unleashing.

"It's okay. What did that brute tell yah?" His voice coming out in the reassuring police tone.

"Nothings fine." Snapped John. "I did all this Lestrade. It was me who sent Sherlock into this state!"

"Did Mycroft tell you this?"

"He... well, no. err- Yes...Kind of. Lestrade you don't understand. That night I called Sherlock a freak, he was trying to tell me something."

A flood of unease swept in Lestrade gut. Sherlock finally opening up and getting verbally abused for something good, when he should have been praised. John must have sensed his mood change. His eyes becoming a puffy red while more tears slid down his checks.

"See! I told you! You'll never guess how bad I fucked up. Sherlock was going to confess his love for me! In my rage at him I missed what should have been the obvious! There were candles, scents, flowers, fucking everything that should be on a lovers date."

"How do you know that John?"

"Mycroft's almost as brilliant as Sherlock. Can deduce anything. Plus, he left note he was going to read to me that night." gestured John to a folded piece of paper on the table beside him.

Lestrades wanted desperately to read it, but he knew it to be wrong. It wasn't his affairs, it was Sherlock's. So instead he shifted towards John and took his hand.

"He'll be alright John. It's Sherlock, he can get through anything."

Before Lestrade's Arrival:

John slid his phone into his pocket after Lestrade's phone call. Desperation to find his friend surged through him. Sifting his hands through the sandy brown hair atop his head he sighed. He needed a cuppa. He made his way towards the kitchen to prep one when it hit him. The whole set up of the flat hadn't occurred to him. Candles setting on the counter had smoldered out, wax that had escaped hardening to anything it had managed to touch. Fancy table wear you'd see with the rich were set up in nice arrangement. The question of where had he collected all this stuff arouse until his eyes meet an envelope. It was neatly arrange near a plate. Written on the front inscribed in Sherlock's handwriting read: John. Picking up the envelope he gently tore open the seal. His hands shaky in anticipation. With the paper extracted from its protector, he read:

Dear John,

I write to you today to tell you something important to me. For I have never been one to share parts of myself to others, I feel greatly confident that you will hear me out. Although my confession may bring complications, I believe we can work something out together.

My dearest John. You're my best friend, and really my only one. You've been by my side ever sense we met without a doubt in your mind. You killed for me, and risked your life on multiple other occasions. I strongly recuperate these feelings, but in a stronger sense. I would do all of this and more for you. To be straightforward John, I love you. I always have, and I always will.

If anything said has disgusted you I understand, if you wish away with me I will comply, though not happily. Only for you John do I wish the best.

Sincerely,

Sherlock

Trembling hands released the note and it slowly drifted to the floor. His words scared him deeply, harassing him. Sherlock's words of _I feel greatly confident that you will hear me out _ran unfiltered through his mind. He'd done just the opposite of what Sherlock had expected. He had openly given him his heart and all John had done was harm. Demolishing what love his sociopath had once possessed. Never in his life had he felt so useless, such a failure. John's body dropped to the floor like a rag doll. The soilder in him unable to take the war assulting him.

"John." A voice said behind him.

Looking up he spotted Mycroft. Not a speck of worry for Sherlock in his face. His goverment feel spewing off of him.

"Yes?"

"I thought you to be smarter John. Sherlock has gone down into a spiral of destruction. Normally I don't have to interfer, but it seems he has forgotten caring is a disadvantage. The next time this happens he may not be revivable. So this is your chance. You will either step out of his life now, or stay in it for the long run. But I will warn you this; never again will you hurt my brother like you did. If it happens again, there will be no more John Watson."

"How... How do you know?" Stuttered John awestruck.

"I know many things John Watson. Now get up in the chair and make yourself presentable, Lestrade is coming for a visit."

Meanwhile behind the chaos:

He lies on cold cement in his hospital gown. Dim light shinning in from windows towering above him. The occasional chirp of a bird was the only sign he wasn't alone. But soon too the bird had left him to fend for himself. Holding up his piece prize he couldn't help but smirk. All Mycroft's work to rid him of this had failed. Nothing could part him with his dearest and most trusting friend. Rolling the tube in his hand he cherished the pressing need to feel the cocaine intoxicate him. After moments of this, it began to transform to torture. The urge of relief tearing through him. No longer the sight content, but only a tease.

Picking up the box of cleansing materials that Jade, the homlessworker in the ally, provided him with, he prepped and prodded himself. Getting the so urgently requested channel to freedom he required.

All Sherlock had ever wanted was to be excluded from the complex ways of life. Like feelings and all the drama it could coax up. To his luck he'd finally been granted the ecstasy he'd been yearning for. Content suppressed him as he lie on a floor. A band of plastic snaked around his forearm; syringe dangling from the injection site he had just created. The throbbing pain eluding him as the cool liquid seeped through his veins. His mind dancing on the edge of oblivion. Comforting darkness caressed him, silencing the pain. Silencing the never ending torrent of thoughts.

"John..." He whispered before nodding off.


	7. Liar Liar

A/N: Thank you all so much! And yes, I will continue to thank everyone for following, liking, commenting e.t.c. I hope you enjoy this chapter, I think it turned out for the better. It would have been out sooner, but I've been pretty stressed and busy. So, Enjoy! (Just to be clear, I used a hypothetical character among the Holmes family tree. I have no idea about anything about him, so... lets go with it?)

Warnings: Adult language, reference to sexual activities, and self harm topics. Read with caution.

* * *

Chapter Seven: Liar Liar

Pealing eyelids open he couldn't help but feel the Déjà vu; Beeps audible in his ears. Whiteness bleached out everything in the room. The bed he lie on was dressed in white sheets, his dress gown a pale bile color. Four puffy walls enclosed him smeared in a deathly white. A large Earl grey door was placed in the middle of the far wall. The tone of the room screamed only one thing: Psychiatric ward. Immediate panic seized his stomach. Lurching forward he was immediately denied movement; Cold metal ate at his wrists. Attempting to free his hands from the clasps of the cuffs he efforts were futile. He was restrained to his bed enclosed in the remits of hell sent back to haunt him. _What had happened to him?_ Pondering this statement he raked his brain for the events he seemed to be lacking. But to no avail, it was a fail. He couldn't quite place himself into the right situation, and this frustrated him greatly. Tugging viciously at his bindings he let out a snarl.

"Oh dear Brother, Temper." remarked Mycroft, a smirk plastered onto his face. He strolled into the room as if nothing was out of place. "Look what happens when you don't take my advice."

"You have absolutely no right. This is ludicrous!" Roared Sherlock.

"Dare you say, I had every right. You may not run around bleeding obsessively and shooting up whenever you please. Because of your faulty actions, there was no choice but for mum to find out." He paused leaning in towards the chained Sherlock taunting him. "Remember what happened last time sherly, and now you'll be the downfall of her once again." Guilt stabbed at Sherlock. Last time, was a bad time.

"Yes you remember? All that pain you caused her? Her perfect little boy destroying himself for 'Evidently' no reason." Snarled Mycroft air quoting himself.

"I had a reason Mycroft, as you well know."

"Doubtful." He scoffed.

"I demand you let me go!"

"Not a chance."

If looks could kill, Mycroft would be dead ten times over. "Where is John? I want to see him."

"Oh Sherlock. I thought you understood. John doesn't want to see you. Who would want to love a damaged sociopath like you. I told you caring was a disadvantage."

Sherlock froze. If possible Sherlock's heart had shattered all over again. He'd always held onto the glimmer of hope that his deductions may have been wrong, maybe it had been a misunderstanding between them. But, now it couldn't be. Mycroft had confirmed it. He his head like a rag doll. Without looking up towards Mycroft he croaked out a demand.

"Unbind me, and leave."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

Sighing dramatically, Mycroft complied. He aught to give him the gift of some freedom. The locks clicked open and the tall brunette curled into a ball onto his side. His famous sulking position. Although this time it didn't quite seem like the same sulking. This was more, sad. however that could ever occur, it was.

"I am sorry Dear Brother. But I warned you." With his last words spoken, Mycroft took his leave.

As he made his way to the door he couldn't help question his actions. Would Sherlock really be alright without John? he couldn't help the flicker of guilt emit itself inside him. He only lied to protect Sherlock: _"Who would want to love a damaged sociopath like you." _The words gnawed at him. Surely he would be fine. The last time emotions occurred with Sherlock, everything went to hell. Definitely, He was saving him from another tragedy.

After:

He lie in fetal position on the ward's bed. Head caressed between his thin knees. A tear slipped down his face. The empty shell of his chest pleading for a beating organ to carrying him away from the hurt. It was like he'd been clean shot in the heart without dyeing. The pain unbearable with no shock to dull the throbbing torture. It was all his fault. He'd brought all this down onto him, John and Mum. He ruined John's and his relationship. He just had to tell him. What was a sociopath with feelings. A great big nothing! More tears escaped down his face; an unavoidable sob escaped passed his lips. If Mycroft was telling the truth, and mum does know, she was hiking through the largest demons possible. Snapping his eyes shut he couldn't help the memories of the past from reoccurring. The past bringing with more heart breaks and pain he'd once again have weather. Memories began to surface as Sherlock trembled. His whole body an earth quake. He clung to his pillow like and infant would a mother- desperate for the consolation of a human.

"No..." Whimpered Sherlock.

He couldn't take the burden. His precisely built mind palace once again becoming ruins. The files of things he'd deleted being revived from the dead. One memory in particular gloated its rekindlement. The tragedy of Sherrinford Holmes.


	8. The Tragedy

A/N: Sorry it took so long to upload, had a busy weekend. I will never abandon my beautiful readers; it's down right cruel to do that. Enjoy :3

Warnings: Selfharm topics, and slight disturbing topics.

* * *

Chapter Eight: The Tragedy

Cause:

The three brothers had gone out to an old abandoned shed they'd reconstructed. It was the official club house for the Holmes boys and their friends. Though, Sherlock was never a fan. He'd always slip out the back of the shed and play near the train tracks beyond. Every time he'd do this, his brothers always knew. Sherrinford would always yell: "Sherlock! Don't wander off and keep near Mycroft and I." But, he only ignored his eldest brothers warnings.

Sherlock clutched his new present. Sherrinford had given him a magnifying glass for his 8th birthday that was just last week. Ever sense receiving it, it hadn't parted with him. As if it was a goal, Sherlock had decided to study everything he could with his fancy new toy. Peering through the glass the world was expanded. He moved it above the steel rails. Rust was garlanded along the edges. Deductions soared through his delicate mind. Rust, the rails must not be used much; Litter, common place for people to gather; White powder, must be where the drug dealers make their exchange. Conclusion after Conclusion shaped themselves inside his head. Except for one simple thing. The train.

"Sherlock!" Screamed Sherrinford and Mycroft in sync.

The brunette didn't respond. Why should he? His pesky brothers were always manipulating him. Dipping his head lowered he concentrated on his deductions.

Sherrinford's heart was a symphony inside his chest. "Sherlock look out!" he hollered. His legs were pumping full throttle towards his little brother.

Sherlock straightened himself up. "What?!" he snapped.

"The train!" the elder Holmes boys shouted.

Deer in headlights, Sherlock stood paralyzed. The hunk of horsepower chugging full speed down the tracks. The clink of steel against steel hissing inside his ears as the train tried to slow. Ten feet, Stop? Eight feet, Please? His mind couldn't comprehend the trains speed. Three feet? - Certainly not. A brute force came barreling into his side; His body catapulting through the air. A hard terrain collided with him. His teeth barred as he hissed out in pain at the beastly through he'd been delivered. Rolling his eyes open light blurred his vision. The chugging of the train rumbled inside his ears. He wasn't dead. Pulling himself up he pondered the possibility of this.

"Sherlock! Sherrinford!" Cried Mycroft.

As the train chugged onwards it lie a battle field in its wake. Sherrinford lie on the tracks. Limbs crush and grinded. His arms and legs bent the way toddlers bend Barbie dolls. His once remarkable Holmes face an utter catastrophe; blood was smeared like paint across his face, his skull visible near his temple.

"Oh god…" Murmured Mycroft rushing to Sherrinford's side.

Knees quaking, Sherlock's legs gave out crashing him into the ground. His beloved brother, guardian angel, struck down by none other than him. His juvenile foolishness slaughtering his closest comrade. Mycroft never understood him, always thinking his was a freak, the odd one out. Mummy and father never batted an eye at their youngest child. They'd expected big things from Sherrinford and now he could never live up to those expectations.

"He's… dead and it's all your fault," Mycroft accused. "If you had been smart enough, you would have noticed the damn train!"

The words seethed from his mouth striking Sherlock in the chest. His fragile ignorant heart shattering into a million pieces.

"I… didn't mean to." Sobbed Sherlock; tears spilling down his face.

"That doesn't change the fact he's dead," He hissed back. "And that you killed him. Mummy and Father will hate you for what you've done."

"No…" Stuttered the small child.

The world began to cascade down onto him. The luminous disaster just moments before carving out his psyche. The friendly world shifting into a perilous monster. His hands flew to his ears canceling out the ravenous sounds. Twisting on his heel,Sherlock tore off the opposite way, not turning back.

Effect:

Sherlock was 12; It was four years after the incident on the railroad tracks. Sherlock sat held up in his bedroom. He had constructed a lock so he could sit in isolations on occurrences like this. He'd found a coping mechanism only two years earlier. The cool slip of metal from his fathers razor. As he set it against his skin bliss flooded through him. The slight sting heaven among his hellish life. Small white lines littered his arm like a junkyard. He deserved this. His brother would still be hear if it wasn't for him. Mummy wouldn't be so upset. People might care about him. Grazing the blade deeper fresh red slipped through the fragmented skin. Pounding sounded from his door. Panic emitted itself throughout him causing the razor to lodge itself deep into his skin. An aching throbbing sensation started at his cutting site.

"Sherlock! Open this door." Boomed his mother.

Whiteness began to suppress him. The willingness to move was fallible. His head spun twisting his surroundings into a vortex of impressions. Hinges squealed as the door clattered open.

"My dear boy." Panicked Mrs. Holmes.

Her warms hands meet Sherlock's ice cold skin. His complexion turning one of a ghostly white. Blood seeped from his gashed arm and onto his hardwood floor.

"I'm sorry Mummy." Whispered Sherlock. "I didn't mean to kill Sherrinford."

Reality:

An anguish filled baritone voice filled the air. Escaping past the collective man's tongue a scream filled the empty room. With nowhere to echo, it dead stopped as so as his vocal chords stopped ringing.

"No!" Screamed Sherlock.

Catapulting forward sweat glazed Sherlock. His lungs heaved air through his body. Chest shaking more and more with every breath. His brain trying to veer the memories away. The silhouette visible as it was discarded. As the tragedy seeped from his tarnished mind, another one loomed in the distance.

Mycroft watched as the lanky brunette tossed and turned in his bed. The white sheets braided around his thin legs. Soft moans and whimpers escaped past his lips. The noise loud in the silence of the room. He could only make a good guess as to what the detective was dreaming of. If his suspicions were to be confirmed, Sherlock was heading through the largest relapse yet.


	9. Let's Dance Johnny Boy

A/N: It's a little out of character, but I hope you enjoy. Thanks again to all my readers. (Updated some of my spelling fails.)

Warnings: Language

* * *

Chapter Nine: Let's Dance Johnny Boy

Lanky arms curled around a feeble body. The after shocks of the flashbacks still sending faint tremors rippling through his body. He dipped his head between his knees. The guilt of the so long ago death replenishing its self. The new acquired feeling settling in beside his John feelings. The plethora of feelings he was begging to obtain once again set off blaring emergency bells inside his head.

Sherlock tried to tune out the chaos erupting inside his skull. Clenching his fists together he groaned in anguish. Why did everything have to happen to him? Why not some rapist or murderer? He clicked his tong at the last word his mind had stated; Murderer. He technically was one, wasn't he? He was the largest factor leading to the death of Sherrinford, his relationship with John had been slaughtered, and with the pace he was going Sherlock would be next. He'd fall fatal to his own treacherous mind games.

Behind him Sherlock heard the grinding of the steel door. Focusing on the footsteps padding closer to him he couldn't quite place the owner of the feet. Mycroft walked heavier, plus the sent smelled womanly. Irene Adler? No, the rhythm of the walk wasn't hers- it was to clumsy. Deducing it was no one he knew, he concluded Mycroft had gotten sick of him. He must have sent a nurse to further attended to him. How predictable, thought Sherlock.

"Are you awake?" Questioned a delicate voice.

"Mmph." Replied Sherlock lazily.

"I brought some food and drinks. It's toast and tea."

Sherlock's heart seized. John had always made him those two items.

"I don't want it," recoiled Sherlock.

"Mycroft Holmes strongly insists that you eat it." She encouraged.

"Well you're not Mycroft, now are you?! If he insists on my eating and welfare I'd damn well like to see him come in here and say it to my face." His head snapped around to face her; eyes seething in anger.

She looked unfazed. She stood grasping the tray in one hand, a paper in the other.

"I'll just leave the tray on the side table then. But you really should eat hun." A tone of seductively slipping into her voice. "Also, there's been a note I've been sent to deliver to you."

She set her hand on his shoulder. The long nails on her fingers gliding across his bicep. Slipping the paper into his hands her lips grazed against his ear.

"It's from a very interested party, who very much so enjoys dances." She purred.

Sherlock lie stunned on the bed. Not until the woman left was he able to summon some composure. Gripping the paper, he unfolded it. Red pen was scribed onto it giving it a ghastly feel. Putting all other thoughts aside, he read the note.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I heard the tragic news involving John. How could he dare not love the dear Sherlock Holmes? For you my sweetest, are perfect in every way. I think I aught to teach Johnny Boy a lesson. What do you think dearest? Until next time._

_-M_

No... Thought Sherlock. John is in trouble and it's all my fault. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed he set off towards the door. His legs numbing and feet stumbling. The sudden mobilization from the dorment state they'd been in, threw him for a loop. Reaching the door his fists wailed into the cool metal. Cumbersome bangs clouding the small room. Three unusual words found their way past Sherlocks lips.

"Help me Mycroft!"

* * *

Mycroft watched through the cameras at Sherlock. After about an hour of relentless pounding, he'd finally given up. Literally, given up. Sherlock was now curled into a fetal position in the farthest corner of the room. His body was shaking. Mycroft couldn't quite decipher why Sherlock had an outburst quite this dramatic. It seemed all a little to eccentric for , it was Sherlock. So the episode must have some sort of purpose to it.

Making his way down the corridors he stopped before his brothers room. Sliding the key in the slot he clicked the door unlocked. With the dead bolt removed Mycroft stepped inside the room. Sherlock remainded as he last saw him. Devilish hair out of way and back facing towards him.

"I heard you called." Spoke Mycroft braking the earie silence.

"Your to late." Snarled Sherlock.

He sprun from his nest in the corner to directly infront of Mycroft. Rage radiated off the younger Holmes.

"What do you mean Sherlly?" He questioned condesendingly

"He took John, Mycroft! Moriarty!" His fingers drug down his face leaving puffy red claw marks. "He warned me and... you didn't come when I needed you. Again!" Screamed Sherlock.

Knees buckling Sherlock no longer had the stregnth to support himself. All hope and love he'd had came crashing down. Mycroft caught the frail brunette but the armpits slowley lowering him to the ground.

"Mycroft... I did it again."

"Excuse me?"Mycrofts face was of . His brown eyes almost reveling a hint of concern.

"Don't you see? I kill everyone. First Sherrinford, now John. Next it could be you or lestrade... or Mrs. Hudson. Oh... god."

"We don't know he's dead yet Sherlock."

Mycroft had neglected to notice something Sherlock held fast in his hand. It looked like... cloth? The man opened his palm reveling the item. It indeed was cloth, a shirt? Crumpled next to it was a yellow peice paper with ink scribbles coating it. As soon as the questions began to form in his head, Sherlock answered them without needing them vocilized.

"It's Johns favorite white jumper, stained blood red." He spoke flatley. "The paper says, 'This is just the beginning.'"


	10. Abduction

A/N: Sorry this chapters short, but I think I'm falling into the depths of writers block. Ahh! Reviews? They honestly help. ;) Please and Thanks!

Warnings: Slight Torture.

* * *

Chapter Ten: Abduction

After the episode with Mycroft, John needed some air. It was an absolutely appalling conversation to have, especially with the previous guilt just being added to. Shortly after the talk had gone down, and Mycroft left, Lestrade had also taken his leave. But like the good friend he was, he waited to make sure that John was emotionally stable. Although, he'd picked up a few tricks from Sherlock while they'd lived together; like putting up a mask. He constructed the best make he could under the circumstances. He bandaged up his hurt and placated his anger towards himself. Lestrade only saw the mask; the calm and collective solider he was.

Setting forth down the stairs he made his way out of 221B. Making his way down the street he had no particular destination. He just wanted rid of everything: The drama, hurt, and guilt. For once you could say John almost envied Sherlock's sociopath personality. But now Sherlock wasn't feeling less, John had been the cause of this.

"Ahhh!" Exclaimed John.

Black spots flooded into his vision. Pain etched itself into his head starting from the back of his head; the uncomfortable feeling radiating around his skull. Reaching to the source of the feeling, his fingers meet contact with a warm gooey texture. Spinning to search for his attackers, a cloth made contact with his mouth. Making the crucial mistake of inhaling, he was gifted with a dizzy sensation. The smell was distinct- chloroform. Blackness began to overwhelm him. Trying to resist the drug his fight was in vain. John soon slipped into a realm of unconsciousness.

Later:

"Hello Johnny boy!"

He was aroused by a knowing high pitched Irish voice. The sound was like daggers to his ears. Light blinded him as he pealed open his eye lids. As they began to adjust to the light he took in his surroundings. High beams were pointed directly at him blazing pain when looked into. In front of the lights stood the devil himself; Moriarty. His body dressed in his classic Westwood suit, ironed to over perfection.

"It's good to see you awake, Pet." Chirped Moriarty.

"What do you want?" questioned John in Disdain, His voice husky from the drug.

"Well Johnny Boy, You're hardly the one to demand. But if you must know..." He spoke trailing off.

Moriarty snapped his fingers together. One cue two men walked in together through a set of doors.

"I suppose it's only fair to tell you. But first I need a little something from you." Nodding towards John one of the men made his way towards him.

The man extracted a knife from his pocket and flicked it open. The blade glistened in the bright light. Instantaneously the solider in John kicked in. Brining his hands up to block of the assailant he was found himself unable. Cuffs hugged his wrists restricting him.

"Oh Johnny, did you really think I was that dumb?" A frown creased over his face, his brow furrowing. "I really expected more."

Pain suddenly seared into him as the blade kissed his thigh. Blood began to seep out and onto his jeans. Pulling back John fought to elude the blade. Once again he was meet with the result of failure.

"Struggling only increase the pain and my enjoyment," Snickered Moriarty.

He ceased his flailing. Barring his teeth he felt the knife bite through more of his flesh. He could feel the skin rupture leaving a crevice of his mauled flesh. Relief washed over him as the pull of ache of blade was removed from his thigh. A slight throb had begun at the laceration. Grinding his teeth he was thankful the wound was nothing as painful in comparison to his bullet wound he'd once received. A tear ripped through the air. Looking down John's white jumper had been sliced. A piece fluttered to the floor. The Hench man who possessed the knife picked up the shirt. Palming the cloth he pressed it onto John's wound. A groan escaped passed his mouth without permission.

"Naughty Pet," spoke Moriarty seductively. "No wonder Sherlock loves you."


	11. Feelings

A/N: I would like to give a special thanks to Graveofthefireflies. You brought to my attention issues I should work on and I'm thankful for that. To be clear, this is my first fan fiction I've written and am thankful to all the help and helpful criticism give to me. Seeing as how I'm new at this, I would be grateful to anyone who would volunteer to be a beta for me. Message me? (I'm new, so I'm not entirely sure how it works.) Please and thanks! But, for now I'll just proof read. On another note, thank you to everyone who is following and adding me to their favorites. It makes me feel so warm and fuzzy inside. I love you all! Enjoy the story! :D

Warnings: Mentions of torture.

* * *

Chapter Eleven: Feelings

Mycroft swiftly took his leave after Sherlock's episode. He knew he couldn't do much to console his dear brother. He made his way out of Sherlock's room and flicked open his phone. One missed call: Anthea. Pressing the speed dial for his assistant he brought his phone to his ear. Unconsciously smoothing his suit as he walked down the buildings corridors, he waited for her voice to ring through the speakers.

"Mr. Holmes," She answered professionally.

He already knew what she was going to report, but asked anyways. "What is it?"

"It's John Watson. He's… been abducted. We have been trying to track down who's behind it, but so far we've had no luck."

"James Moriarty."

"Sir?"

"James Moriarty is behind this." He repeated himself. "Put everyone behind the discovery and rescue of John Watson."

"I'll keep you updated."

With that said the line went dead. It wasn't a likely occurrence for Mycroft, but for once he was experiencing some amount of feelings. He didn't like it either; feelings were bad and in no way are they for the better. The moment Sherlock had uttered his guilt, a reaction he wasn't familiar experiencing fluttered inside his chest. It wasn't a pleasant sensation either. Sherlock's words kept replaying themselves inside his head: "Don't you see? I kill everyone: First Sherrinford and now John. Next it could be you, or Lestrade... or Mrs. Hudson. Oh… god." He could feel two memorable feelings resurface at his statement; Anger and pity. He knew the anger was only an insignificant brotherly feud. But, the pity was real. Sherlock hadn't meant to endanger everyone that he had, he was just being Sherlock. He massaged his temples with his fingers. Oh how his brother would be the death of him.

* * *

Later that day:

Strolling into his office Mycroft's phone dinged. Fumbling inside his pocket he pulled out his trusty phone. Who needed him now? Drawing out a long sigh, he clicked his screen active.

Message Received: Unknown Number.

His brow furrowed in slight aggravation. It vexed him that people could access his number and message him obnoxious and meaningless things. He clicked it open in exasperation. Anguish enveloped him as he started at his phone screen. The sight before him was atrocious. Before him was a photo of John. Shoving his fist towards his mouth his teeth dug into his flesh. He choked back the bile rising in his throat.

John's hands were bound in metal cuffs. The chains from his bindings were strung upwards to a metal pipe. He hung loosely from his cuffs; his body like a flag in the wind, carelessly draped, not caring if it was torn or tainted. His torso was laminated in blood. Lacerations littered his body seeping the crimson liquid painting his body. John's eyes were dark and vacant as he started off to the side. There was no happiness in his eyes, only clear pain was reflecting from them. As soon as he was done examining the photo, his phone rang out again.

Message Received: Unknown Number.

He immediately opened the new message. The words read:

Can Sherlock come and play? -M

Mycroft knew who had sent the message; Moriarty. Seeing as how it was him it would be pointless to try and track the number. He hated to admit it, but Moriarty was intelligent and would not screw up in something as simple as this. Sighing loudly, he sunk down into his spinney chair. The leather squeaked beneath his weight. A worried thought crossed his mind. He just might need to involve Sherlock.

* * *

Long ago he had succumbed to the idea that everywhere he went destruction was left in his wake. More commonly he often deserted people he loved in the wreckage. For the most part Sherlock had come to terms with this adversity. It wasn't a pleasure in life, but no longer was it a tormenter, just a demon shadowing his every move. Or so he thought until John Watson was snatched from his grasp. The lingering shadow came in for his kill. The clasp the demon possessed on Sherlock was enough to suffocate the detective. His whole demeanor that was carefully constructed brick by brick was becoming disassembled. Every single little thing he'd ever done wrong constructing on each other.

Why couldn't Sherlock do anything right? He threaded his fingers through his hair pulling at the unruly strands. His back was propped up against the cushioned wall. A growl rumbled through his throat as he slammed his head back. He was worthless. A sudden itch in his arm restored itself within him; the familiar need consuming his thoughts. _Perfect…_ He thought sarcastically. Just another thing Sherlock needed to drive himself mad. Scraping his nails along his arms red lines appeared against his pale skin.

"Sherlock," Stated Mycroft walking into his room.

Sherlock glared up towards the British government that had just crowded his every will.

"What?"

"This is not the time dear brother. I understand your frustration towards me but…"

Sherlock cut him off words lurching through his teeth like venom: "Sense when do you understand anything remotely close to frustration? I thought you were unsusceptible to feelings!"

"Sherlock!" Snapped Mycroft fiercely, "It's about John.


	12. Worse Than the Bullet Wound

A/N: Truthfully, I hadn't expected my story to turn out this way, it just kind of happened. I hope it's not a disappointment to anyone. As always, Enjoy. ;)

Warnings: Torture. (Entire chapter)

* * *

Chapter Twelve: Worse Than the Bullet Wound.

The strain on his arms was becoming agonizing. His limbs ached in pain. His wrists were the source of the main torment. The metal clasps had begun engraving torture into each wrist; the edges drawing blood. His chest began to ache from the extensive amount of hanging; toes barely danced across the cool floor bringing him no relief of the abuse he was suffering. John's breath had taken a labored tone to it. A throbbing sensation replenished itself from within his thigh. His teeth slammed together grinding against one another. All the pain he was suffering rekindled the remembrance of the bullet wound he'd gotten in Afghanistan. Nothing Moriarty had put him through matched up to what he felt then. John's stomach stirred at the thought, nausea creating uproar within the pain. John tried to focus everything out just like Sherlock could; trying to place his essence in happy memories. Unfortunately, John wasn't the brilliant mind Sherlock was. The pain was too prominent and clouded over any thought he could create.

Only about two hours prior Moriarty had John's thigh cut into. After that he'd had his men string him up to flail like a rag doll. So now here he was, trying to elude the ever persistent pain.

He supposed hanging here doing nothing would be useless. He decided to try and deduce where he was. Cool cement scraped against his toes. The air smelt like, well…air. There were no windows; a basement was his closest guess. A longing for Sherlock erupted within John's chest. If he was here he could probably conclude where they were being held by the smell of the air, or the feel of the cement. He'd be able to tell what brand the concert was and rack his beautiful brain to conclude where it was normally sold. Then he'd piece everything together and tell John exactly where they were. He could practically see the detective glistening in pride as he told John what he'd reasoned.

His thoughts were shattered as the creak of the metal door sounded behind him. Multiple sets of feet could be heard padding towards John. Hit gut clenched in horror knowing full well who'd entered.

"Hello Johnny Boy, did you miss me?" Moriarty Giggled.

Gathering himself John spoke in the best solider voice he could summon: "Certainly not, now let me go." His demand was futile- John new full well. But nothing less was expected of a captive. He wanted to be let free and be as far away as possible from the psychopath.

"But John," purred Moriarty. "The fun is just about to begin."

John could hear a rustling behind him. It took no genius to figure out what was happening. They were probably looking for their next torture tools. Goose bumps littered his body. _Oh god…_ what were they going to do? Worries overcame John. He tried not to show it keeping his features stoic. Biting down on his bottom lip John couldn't help but pray. He wanted- no needed Sherlock. He needed his flat mate to come save him. John was immediately crestfallen. Mycroft had taken Sherlock after the drug and self harm affair. His heart sunk into a void of panic.

"I don't think I told you why you're here, did I pet?"

The mocking Irish voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Grunting softly John watched him.

"It's referring previous events revolving around Sherlock's new found love for you. Frankly, you should have treated him with more respect than you did. But, what you did lead us here, now didn't it? " Moriarty paused hopping joyfully in the air. "I think I'm going to enjoy this new feeling he's experiencing. I think we should tempt him down here."

"Leave him alone," John snarled. His voice was husky from the strain.

"Now John, we both know that's not going to happen. But because you're Sherlock's 'special friend,' I'll tell you how we'll go about getting him down here."

"And how is that?"

"Pain John- lots of pain."

With a flick of his hand to the man behind him the pain begun. Searing hot agony slashed at his back. The whip of leather gnawed at his flesh with every smack. John's teeth ground together trying to stifle the screams. Every time the leather collided with his skin it tore the tender flesh apart. Blood drizzled from each slash.

"Now the front!" Commended Moriarty; his voice a pain to his ears.

The man swiftly obliged relocating his strokes across John's chest. After the seventh gash was administered to his body, he couldn't help but not scream. Each sting of the whip produced a louder anguish filled howl from John. His chest throbbed uncontrollably. The pain was immense. He yearned for relief from the torture. The anguish began coveting his senses; blackness started to creep into his vision. His head dipped in a pool of unconsciousness. He started to drift from the blood-curdling torture.

He hung by a thread once the abuse had ended. John was unsure how many lashings he had received, but the amount he had acquired was enough to last him. A chilling peace set in as he was left to hang. Cool air kissed his lacerations. He stared blankly to the side; eyes fixated on nothing in particular. A tear streamed down his face and rolled over his plump lip. More salty drops slid down his face until silent sobs smothered his being.

_Help me Sherlock,_ John pleaded to himself. _The pain is unbearable._

* * *

A/N: Poor John, but it had to be done. *Hehe...* It was a slightly short chapter, my apologies. I have been occupied with tons of chores this week. Hope to update loads more in the future! :3 Keep on being brilliant my dear readers.


	13. The Plan

A/N: I kind of jumped around in the timeline leaving out some information. I don't believe it to be too valuable or drastic information. If this bothers anyone please let me know. I'll go back and fix it. I'm always open to improvement. As always, thank you for reading and enjoy!

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Chapter Thirteen: The Plan

Back in the white room:

"Sherlock!" snapped Mycroft fiercely, "It's about John."

Mycroft stood in front of Sherlock, his body looming over the great detective. Sherlock's body began to slowly uncurling itself at the mention of John's name.

"What happened to John?" Questioned Sherlock, his attention now fully focused on Mycroft.

"I have a picture of him and what happened. But brother, it won't be easy to witness. I can just tell you."

"Let me see," demanded Sherlock standing before Mycroft.

Exhaling softly Mycroft reached inside his suit extracting his phone. Scrolling through the images he pulled up the one he'd been sent. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, now let me see!"

Mycroft did as Sherlock wished handing over his mobile. Sherlock stood palming the device. His hands trembling faintly from the horror that he was perceiving. His eyes darted around the small technologic screen hoping to prove it wasn't really John. That he wasn't really in trouble. To no avail, he was provided with no reassurance of John's safety. Anger bubbled inside him. Mycroft saw Sherlock's eyes darken. His bright green eyes turn to a shadowed grey.

"I need to find him," growled Sherlock.

"You also need to get better," countered Mycroft.

"How do you plan on my mending while being stuck inside an insane asylum while John is out there being assaulted? His body could show up on the side of the road. For all we know it will be Lestrade's new homicide. His corpse will be surrounded by god damn police tap!"

He truly did look like a mad man; teeth were ground together, eyes livid, hair astray. If looks could kill, Sherlock Holmes would murder every single living person to be near him. What his little brother said was indeed, mostly true.

"If only to calm you, I will allow you to help find him."

"Good. Now find me my clothes," ordered Sherlock.

Later:

He was finally out, able to find John. Although he had restrictions, He'd conned Mycroft into swinging by 221b. He had to be accompanied by one of Mycroft men, Mycroft, or Lestrade at all times. Thankfully for Sherlock, he was a first-rate rule breaker. Losing one of these men shouldn't be to tricky. As for 221b, Mycroft thought Sherlock was only swinging by to pick up laptop and a few other necessities for the 'case.' Of course he grabbed these things, but only for cover. What he truly required was John's gun. If suspicions proved correct, Moriarty would contact him one way or another. Whether it be by text, call, or another gruesome piece of mail; he believe it would happen. As Sherlock stomped down the steps he eyed a fragment of paper. Picking it up he rotated it within his fingers. The paper was stocky and hard against his leather glove. Inscribed on the paper was a location and message.

Ryan's Latex warehouse. -Alone.

Simple enough. It was almost shocking he would contact so soon. But sooner the better he supposed. He slipped the paper into his coat pocket.

"And what might that have been?" Questioned the man Mycroft had assigned to him.

"Oh nothing of importance- Just trash." Smiled Sherlock, "Now, To the Scotland Yard?"

As they drove Sherlock devised his some-what-of-a-plan. Lestrade would be easiest to slip away from. Ironic seeing as how he was a detective inspector for the Scotland Yard. He snagged all the ammunition that John had in the flat. I wasn't a whole lot seeing as how Sherlock had recently used most of it to shot the wall. What he'd scavenged was a clip plus… four bullets. He doubted he would need all of these bullets, he really didn't want to kill anyone. But, John needed him.

Pulling up to Scotland Yard Sherlock was escorted to Lestrade's office. He hardly spared anyone a look or a thought. He was too deep in thought. He'd set up and start searching for John, make it look like the location of John was undisclosed to him. Then he'd escape to find John while everyone was occupied. He'd spout some excuse about needing to use the men's room. Of course he would escape through the men's room. It was the only way to help make his excuse more reliable. Plopping down into Lestrade's guest chair, he set to work.

"I'm sorry about John, we all are Sherlock." He could see the glum look plastered on the detectives face. "I'm sure we'll find him, no worries mate."

"Yes, no worries. A psychopath has his hands on John. No one should be in the least bit petrified."

"I'm only trying to help," consoled Lestrade.

Minutes later Sherlock candidly stated, "I have to pee."

"Then go to the men's room. You know where it is Sherlock."

He felt bad for him. It was still astonishing that Mycroft had placed him into a white room. Then to add to it, let him out to catch a Psychopath. The Psychopath that had tortured John; John, whom he loved. Couldn't Mycroft see how bad a situation that this was? He was blinded by sibling rivalry and love. Sherlock was being surprisingly calm about the whole ordeal as well. Then it hit him, he had also been blinded. Springing up Lestrade dashed to the men's room. The door clattered open behind him. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

His pale hands clasped the guns handle. Behind him he saw the destruction he'd left on his route to retrieve John. For once the detective could care less about the welfare of others. He'd always been known as a sociopath, and this would only help sustain anyone's theories of how inexistent his feelings were. Unlike what people thought, he did care about people. But he could hear it now, all the rumors: _"Hey, did you hear? Sherlock Holmes slaughtered about a dozen people. Do you know why he did it? It's a crack pot reason, just to solve a case." "That loony is mad!" "What sort of human could do such a thing?" _With assertive force Sherlock shoved the thoughts aside. He needed to save John. John would understand why he did what he did.

Checking the clip to the gun, Sherlock was pleased to see three bullets present. Returning the gun so it was fit to fire, he peered through the door beside him. Through the small window amongst the steel door Sherlock saw John. He was no longer dangling from the ceiling by his arms. A gush of air wafted out from between his lips that he didn't know he was holding. He was seated in a chair and head slightly limp. The view that Sherlock was provided wasn't a very detailed one. Snapping his head back he only wished John wasn't too rigorously injured. Moriarty had been perched in front of John in his own chair; only he had been provided the luxury of no horrendous wounds- yet.

Gripping the handle to the door, Sherlock slammed his weight into the metal barrier. With his gun in hand he entered the torture chamber. Two Hench men came barreling towards him. His finger clicked the trigger twice. _Bang, Bang. _The two men dropped to the floor; his aim hadn't been a disappoint. One bullet hole each established themselves on each man. One hole in the head, the other in the heart.

"Pity, they were promising at their jobs." Moriarty smiled at his new play mate. Shrugging off the deaths of his co-workers he kept talking. "I'm so glad you could come out and play Sherlock. It's a pleasant surprise, really. I didn't think that brother of yours would let you off the hook so easily."

"Let John go," demanded Sherlock. He waved the gun slightly in the air to help motivate the man.

"Ahh, well here's the problem. I went to all this trouble to allure you down here, to get you to play, so I'm not just going to give him up."

"I'll shot you."

"Don't you see Sherlock! You won't shot me and you know why?" He purred. "Original I know, but oh-so-handy."

Snapping his fingers red dots danced about the room. Each and everyone moving to the same spot, to John. He hadn't allowed himself a good look at him. His body was shimmering in crimson; the dots fitting in snug with the picture. Cuts littered his body like it was a mural. What were striking were the eyes. Each orb pleading to be saved. Hurt, fear and sadness all swirled into one emotion. The beautiful blue once present in his irises had dimmed down to a stormy grey. The spark and liveliness all but depleted them. His mouth was sealed with duct tape. He was unable to speak but his eyes told him everything.

"It's me you want. Let John go and I'll stay."

"How sweet of you," sing songed Moriarty. "Love is such a beautiful thing isn't it? To bad John doesn't recuperate those feelings."

Sherlock stood shell shocked. He hadn't expected him to say that.

"Daddy struck a chord! But enough of this juvenile behavior Sherlock. Put down the gun. We both know you won't get out of here alive waving that thing around."

Reluctantly, he obeyed. Looking towards John he saw more fear flash within him. Weather it was for himself or Sherlock he didn't truly care. He'd failed John. He came in here with one motive, rescue John and he had failed. He let his love for John overwhelm him. Guilt gnawed at the Detective, the familiarity of it all coming back.

"I'm sorry John," He whispered. "I fail everyone."


	14. Blood Brothers

A/N: Thank you for the follows and favorites! It makes my day to know you all like my story ;) I use a Karambit in my story, this is basically a curved knife. Happy early Easter to anyone who celebrates it! Enjoy :)

-Also, I came back to revise, fixed a slight plot fail, spelling, and grammer.

Warnings: Torture and some language

* * *

Chapter Fourteen: Blood Brothers

"Well boys, although I really do love our time together, i'm afraid we'll have to be hurried through this."

"Get through what?" Inquired Sherlock who was now bound to the chair across from John. His arms and legs were bound tightly to the chairs metal. His waist gouging into the upholstery was only provoking his aggravation.

"Impatient now are we?" With a whisk of his hand Moriarty had summoned more henchmen in. Two men complied to the man's command walking through the metal door. "Take off Sherlock's trousers."

"You most certainly will not!" Snarled the detective lashing out at the henchmen.

A gun suddenly appeared in Moriarty's hand. He lifted the barrel so the cool metal kissed John's temple. "Don't make me ask twice."

Surrendering in fear, false dignity languished him. His body went limp in the clasps of the chairs grasp. Fingers fumbled against his belt buckle sending bolts of anxiety rippling through him. Palms caressed his thighs as his pants were stripped from his body. The clothing hung mockingly around his bare ankles. Unexpectedly, duct tape was smacked against his mouth. The glue pulling taught against his winter chapped lips. As the two men stepped back, Moriarty sauntered towards Sherlock. His fingers brushed against a gauze located on his thigh- his heart.

"You see Sherlock, I love the artwork you've created." He purred slowly pulling the medical tape free from his skin. "I think we should make John a matching one."

Sherlock whipped his head in disagreement. His mouth tried to form the word 'no.' Only muffled pleads could be comprehended from the duct tapes block. Moriarty continued to tear off the gauze. After it was fully removed Sherlock's shameful portrait was visible. The design red and puffy, very pronounced against his pale skin. The shame of what he'd done gnawed at him. John had saw what he'd done, and now what would he think? Gazing up into his doctors lost eyes, he saw what'd he'd feared- Horror. He was ashamed. Horrified by the fact anyone could inflict this upon ones self and Sherlock knew it

As John's eyes met Sherlock's painful ridden orbs he couldn't help the guilt and horror surge through him. He had caused this brilliant minded man he'd knew to do this. The J engraved into his thigh marked the hurt he'd dispensed. Horror struck his gut like a thousand knives. How could he do this to Sherlock? To his best friend, and quite possibly, the man he dare say, he loved.

Johns pants were slowley being removed. The doctor hissed in pain, teeth ground down on one another. Each tug of the removal of his trousers jarring the painful lash marks. His tender flesh rubbing against the ridged wooden chair he was slumped on. The silver tape was torn off his mouth. Rawness submerged onto his face barely making a difference in his pain. It was only a new distraction John could use to avoid the more pressing pains he was suffering.

"So you can hear his screams," taunted Moriarty tossing the duct tape from John at Sherlock's captured being. Metal glistened from within the mans palm. A clicked sounded in the silenced air. A karambit lie nestled in the physcopaths hold. "I know I don't usually get my hands dirty, but I think today's a special occasion."

He slunk towards John, knife in hand. Terror wrung at John's abdomen._ No no no no_... Pleads and wishes were futile.

Metal probed at Johns already mutilated thigh. The blade pierced his skin; the curved point tearing rabidly at his flesh. Each turn of the weapon's blade as it carved the heart spewing more and more anguish throughout his body. His upper teeth becoming a vise apon his lip. Small whimpers sounded through the extensive tormented space. Eventually the pain triumphed John's solider training. Grave sounds slipped passed his lips. The moans like thunder within the small room. Finally he felt the blade let up. Peering down at his thigh he saw a heart identical to Sherlock's self inflicted one. Nausea swept through his stomach. It...was all to much. He- couldn't. Twisting his head to the side he emptied himself out. His body trembleing in the aftermath. All strength drained from his body.

"There's still more John." Chuckled Moriarty making one long slash through the heart.

He screamed- as much as he didn't want too- as much as he knew he shouldn't- he screamed. The pain rippled through his deprived body. His thigh throbbed as if it had a heart beat of its own. John could barley feel him inscribing the letter S into the center of the heart. He was now scarred identical to Sherlock Holmes. Just looking up at the detectives face drained his energy tank bare. His will was hanging by a thread. Sherlock looked petrified. His body lunged forward as a failed attempt to help, to save his only friend- his love. His platonic expression filled with pure horror. Fluttering his eyelids closed, John tried. His mind begging to will his eyes open, to look up at his best friends face. But his body refused, for all it wanted was the peaceful abyss of oblivion.

* * *

Shit. Moriarty had really done it. Sherlock never really doubted he would, but he'd implored with all his might to the gods he'd for once desperately hoped there were; he begged for John to have no more pain and hurt.

He'd been left to watch. John gasp and moan out in pain. The blood trickle down his quivering thighs. The emotions flash through his eyes: fear, torture, sadness, disgust. Sherlock had saw it all. Nausea had also taken a grasp of him. He was reluctant to let it go. He wouldn't please Moriarty with the satisfactory of his suffering as well.

But now, John sat limp in the chair. Sherlock wriggled in his bindings making a fatal attempt to free himself. John wasn't moving. _Was he dead? No... Please god no...don't be dead John. _Moriarty had seen his compassion. Sherlock was done with trying to cover it up, the attempt to do so was helpless. Moriarty strolled over to Sherlock. His fingers softly caressing his face.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. It had to be done. I really thought that pet of yours would have lasted longer, but oh well!" He spoke tearing off the constricting duct tape.

The words he desperately needed were lost. When he opened his mouth to formulate a question only gibberish stuttered out. "John... he... Is... John dead?" His chest heaved in panic.

"Oooo...this is an interesting new Sherlock!" Exclaimed Moriarty. "I'd love to explore this more. So, I suppose I'll need to slow your investigating of me down." With the last word said Moriarty lunged.

Agony erupted from Sherlock's stomach. Looking down, the karambit was impaled into his abdomen. Blood began to stain his white dress shirt. The crimson like watercolor climbing further up the cloth.

"Well, hate to dash, but your friend Lestrade is on his way. They were smart for once and slipped a tracker into your pants pocket. Little too love sick to notice, huh Sherlly?"

Unable to responded, the last exchange was Moriarty's smug face as he waltzed out the door. Flicking his attention to John he catoloauged that the doctors situation hadn't changed. But he could identify small breaths fluttering in and out of his damaged chest.

"Don't die John," whispered Sherlock.


	15. Rescuing John?

A/N: I hope everyone had a Spiffy Easter! I got a Sherlock shirt for Easter! I'm so happy! ;) But anyways, sorry about the wait but I was busy this past weekend. I've been told by someone that my story has gotten to a point to where it's boring. If this is true please tell me. Comments are super appreciated. I'm thankful for all my faithful readers and those who follow, favorite, comment, and continue to do so. Enjoy the chapter!

Warnings: Descriptions of few wounds.

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Chapter Fifteen: Rescuing John?

He was dying; you need be no genius to know John's physical state was rubbish. His body was limp inside the rope that clutched his form to the chair. Bloodshed swept over his body coating every single piece of John it could uncover. Sherlock watched John's breath. It was the only reassurance that his best friend was alive. Shallow wisps of air travel inside his lungs only to be exhaled in stuttered breaths. The gaps between inhale and exhale were becoming more of a struggle. He could see John's chest hitch every few intakes; his body gasping for air.

"John," pleaded Sherlock. "John you can pull through. You always do." His voice cracked on the last syllable. "Please John." Tears began to slip down the detectives face.

He couldn't die, it was John. John never died. But every time he saw the labored intake of air a piece of doubt snuggled down inside him. Tugging at his binding's pain erupted in his abdomen. The knife still snuggled into his gut; the slab of steel impaling him. Blood still painted his shirt, the liquid continuing to trickle out of his wound, especially sense Sherlock had jarred its place. Removing it would only make matter worse, but luckily for him he wouldn't have to worry about that seeing as how he was restricted. The whole situation was utterly inconvenient. He just wished Lestrade would get here soon. He'd even be pleased to see Mycroft, Donavan…even Anderson would be a blessing right now.

"Sherlock!" A voice screamed as if answering his pleadings.

"We're in here! Help us!" He replied, his voice gruff from physical wear.

"Auugh," moaned an incoherent voice.

"John! John you'll be alright, just hang in there. Help is coming."

The door clanked open reveling Lestrade followed by two other policemen. Their arms were raised in the air, guns scoping the area for the attackers.

"Get John, Lestrade. He needs medical help right away!"

Without a second thought Lestrade obeyed motioning for one of his men to contact a medic. He watched the elder man buzz around John in a flurry of motion. He hardly paid a lasting glance towards any specific wound- not even John's thigh. The battle ground John had turned into was too much for the detective. He spun on his heels to the farther side of the room, his body turning itself out. Puke expelled from Lestrade's mouth until nothing was left but bile. Brining up his sleeve he cleaned his mouth against the cuff.

"Sherlock, what happened?" Questioned Lestrade coming to take a look at him.

Sherlock looked awful. But in companion to John he looked like he'd just walked out of a beauty salon. Something caught Lestrade's eyes- the tears. Sherlock had been crying. It shouldn't have been such a surprise as it was, it was John after all. But Lestrade couldn't shake the feeling of pity he got when looking at him. Sherlock starred at John; his eyes never leaving his friend's side.

"You have to help John," Demanded Sherlock, his voice cracking as he said it. "He's going to die if you don't help him!"

"The medics are coming through the door, don't worry. We'll get John to the hospital. But you need to go there too Sherlock. By the looks of it your situation isn't looking so pleasant either."

"I want to ride with John."

"Sherlock you can't. There's not enough room and you're injured too"

"No I want to go with John!"

Sherlock's words were pouring out as sobs. Tears slide alongside cries for John. He doubted the detective even realized that he was letting them fall. As the medics began to lift John out onto a stretcher Sherlock's breathing began to become labored. He was having a panic attack.

"Sherlock," cooed Lestrade. "You need to calm down."

"J… John." He stuttered. "I want John, is he okay? Oh god is he dead?"

"Hey, he's fine. There taking him to the hospital in an ambulance."

"Okay…"

"Let the paramedics cut you free and then we can take you to John, alright?"

"Okay…" He responded numbly.

His mind was caught in a torrent of crisis. Sherlock barley comprehended the hands freeing him of his captors. Lestrade's voice even began to become part of the background noise that he placed as insignificant. All Sherlock could conceive was John. _Please let John live _his mind begged.

* * *

Lestrade excited the house behind Sherlock. Mycroft stood outside the warehouse awaiting their arrival.

"Update on them both?"

"John's in horrible condition. They- don't think he's going to make it. He has significant blood loss. Sherlock on the other hand has minor injuries. Except for a stab wound to the abdomen, and he's going a little nuts. We had to strap him to the stretcher. He thought we were all here to take him away from John." He reported everything to Mycroft like the detective inspector he was; professional and quick, yet informative.

"I'm going with Sherlock, if you don't mind accompanying John? We do need to get going Inspector." Informed Mycroft.

"Of course."

Lestrade climbed into the back of the ambulance right before it took off. John's body was limp against the bed. His body flopping around with every pothole they hit. He looked like he was from a horror story.

The paramedics hurriedly tended to John's most pressing wounds; slapping gauzes onto the lacerations, applying pressure to persistently bleeding lesions, and inserting IV's into his vein. Chaos suddenly broke out within the congested vehicle. John had flat lined- John was dead.

* * *

A/N: Haha, please don't kill me because of this nasty cliffhanger. It had to be done. Also, John's a solider. Hope for our lovely doctor! Until the next chapter ;)


	16. Hospitalized

A/N:Sorry about the nasty cliffhanger and wait. But thanks for reading, reviewing, following, favoriting, and all that spiffy stuff. ;) Enjoy

* * *

Chapter Sixteen: Hospitalized

_Shortly before the flatline:_

John's mind was on shut down. His thoughts and feelings were all confined inside his tormented body. The world around him slowed, slipping from his hold and throwing him into the darkness. One of the last things John could clearly remember was Sherlock talking to him: "John! John you'll be alright, just hang in there. Help is coming" his words were barley audible even though he'd yelled at him. He couldn't understand why the detective cared so much. John had clearly set the mans foundation on fire without a second thought, but Sherlock came right back like a dog to it's owner. He didn't deserve such devotion.

He could feel himself fading. His chest felt like an immense burden had been placed on top of it. He recognized the sensation. He'd felt it back in Afghanistan when he had been shot. It was the beginnings of death; unconsciousness and organ failure. His lungs were struggling to provide his body with the required oxygen. His mind slowed down to snail speed, whiteness shown in the persistent dark of his physique. Heaven? No... It couldn't be. John could hear his name being called. The sweet wisps of reconciliation calling to him. His mothers sweet voice called to him from the void before him. He always obeyed his mother- walking towards the white, ecstasy overwhelmed him. There seemed to be no pain or worry. Reaching out he felt the familiar grasp of soft and warm hands. Making a hold out of the hands he kept going only to be pulled back. It was... fading? No... No... why was it fading? John's mind became a calamity. Panic surfacing sending his body thrashing about.

"He's back," reported an EMT stabilizing John.

Greg let out a huff of anticipation. His eyes were damp and watery threatening to spill. "Thank god," he sighed shakily.

_Barts Hospital_:

Both men were rushed into emergency surgery at Bart's hospital. This left Mycroft and Lestrade alone in the waiting room. Both men sat restlessly in the stiff plastic chairs. It had been hours and the doctors had refused to let them into see their friends- seeing as how they were both being operated on. They also held no new information upon their vitals.

"Thank you for earlier," spoke Mycroft breaking the silence. "Being professional in your report."

"Er... yeah, your welcome. It is my job after all."

"Modest," chided Mycroft trying the break the tension.

"I'll get us some coffee," stated Lestrade getting up to releive himself of the strained conversation.

"That would be lovely."

Mycroft pulled out his phone sending a few texts. One about having Anthea set up a private hospital room for both Sherlock and John; preferably across the hall from each other. Secondly, give him and Lestrade unrestricted access to both patients files. Patients... He thought cringing at his wording. It seemed unbelievably cruel. Momentarily he debated on texting mummy, but thought better of it. No need to worry her with these matters. It wouldn't do any good to her.

As soon as Lestrade had retuned with two hot coffees a doctor walked through the door. Both men sprung at the man withholding information about their friends.

"How are they?" They asked in sync.

"Before I report, would you both like to sit down?"

Dread filled Lestrades eyes, _oh god... had one of them died?_ Mycroft's eyes clouding over with anger and despair. The duos jaws slid ajar in worried response.

"Oh I didn't mean to scare you two. Both of them made it through surgery and are coming off their anesthesia."

"I want to see them."

"This way sir," motioned the doctor. " I should tell you about their vitals before you visit." The doctor lead them into the elevator clicking the 8th floor button. "First, John Hamish Watson. He has multiple cuts, lesions, raw skin... The torture he went through was brutal. By the looks of it he was whipped, carved into, beaten, he was also hung and tied up. He was hung by his wrists causing the cuffs to dig into them. One wrist cracked under the pressure, his old bullet wound reopened under the stress of everything. Luckily we were able to stitch and sanitize everything. He died once in the ambulance, and once during surgery.

Sherlock on the other hand was easier to deal with. We did have to drug him in the ambulance as you saw Mr. Holmes. But that seemed to be our only problem. His stab wound to the abdomen was very serious but we were able to stabilize it very quickly. He has some small cuts and bruises, but other than that he's a lucky man."

Letting the information soak in Mycroft was slightly relieved. His brother was okay for the most part. A part of him was worried for the sanity of his brother. All of this was way more emotional than Sherlock had ever experienced before. John could still not like Sherlock, while his little brothers feelings may have grown. Dread filled his gut at the thought.

"Here's their rooms. John's on the right, Sherlock's is..." The sentence came out in a tumble as a loud flat line could be heard from Sherlock's room.

The three men ran into his room. Sherlock was gone. The sheets were pulled back in a rumpled pile on the bed. IV and pulse reader lying astray on the tile floor.

"Shit, he's gone." Panicked Lestrade.

"How and the hell did he get the nurses to not notice the flat line?" Pondered the Doctor panic overtaking him.

Taking a sweep of the room with his eyes Mycroft deduced everything. Sherlock wasn't the only one with his miraculous abilities. Plus, his little brother was incredibly predictable when it came to certain aspects.

"Don't worry, he's still here."

Lestrade and the doctor both looked up at Mycroft. "Excuse me?" They stated In unison.

"He got out by bugging your machine temporarily, not quite sure how he pulled that one off though. As for where he is, he is with John." He stated blankly turning towards John's room.

Pulling the door to John's room open he proved himself correct. His little brother sat in a visitors chair, torso slumped onto John's bed. Their hands clasped together; fingers intertwined. Soft snores came from John's sleeping body. Sherlocks eyes were shut as his head nestled in the hospital sheets. He could see the pain straining in Sherlock's face becuase of the lack of drugs and position he'd choosen. For once he left the two be, hoping for the best to prevail. Taking his leave, he heard Sherlocks voice whisper out.

"I love you John..."


	17. Love and Hate

A/N: Sorry this update took so long. I would once again like to thank all my spiffy readers for EVERYTHING. Lots of drama in this chapter, I hope you Enjoy. ;)

* * *

Chapter Seventeen: Love and Hate

Not again.

John had been roused by a dull ache and woke to feel something clamping his hand tightly. Snapping open his eyelids his eyes barely had time to adapt to the light before his body withdrew from his surroundings. His body retreated into the cushion of the bed; heart thumping rapidly awaiting the next round of torture to begin.

"John…" croaked a voice that sounded oddly like Sherlock. Blinking, John looked towards the owner of the voice. "It's alright, you're in the hospital."

His jaw descended in effort to talk, but no words found their way out. Sherlock sat next to his bed in a visitor's chair. His torso was slumped slightly over the edge of the bed, hand idle on his mattress. Was Sherlock holding his hand? Gazing into the detectives eyes he could see a swell of emotions that were barely detectable. The man had enough time to try and recover his mask. Was it, sadness, worry? John doubted that was the case, but then again Sherlock had admitted his feelings for him.

"John I didn't mean to scare you… I should go. It's probably better that way." Sherlock's lips curled into a smile. Only he knew better. It wasn't real; it was just a front the detective had put up. The man took hold of the chairs arms to lift himself up. Pain rippled across his face causing his features to cringe in pain.

"What happened?" Asked John.

* * *

Sherlock froze in the middle of extracting himself out of the chair: "Moriarty happened."

"That's not what I meant Sherlock and you know full well. And sit down you twat, you're going to hurt yourself."

Sherlock internally smiled. A demand based on his welfare was a start. He was honestly expecting John to be revolted by his presence and kick him out of the room. Placing himself gently in the chair he watched John. He could see his body slowly ease itself of the tension it was holding.

"Sherlock?"

"Right… Erm… I got stabbed." He responded uncomfortably threading his fingers together only to entwine them again and again. John just glared at him obviously looking for more information. "It happened after Moriarty cut your leg. You… passed out and then he stabbed me. Then he left us alone so we could be rescued."

John nodded soaking it all in. "But why would he want us rescued?"

Sherlock looked into Johns eyes. The man wanted to know, and Sherlock knew it would only take time for him to discover the answer. He lips pressing together debating on whether to provide an answer. He didn't want to tell John. It would only scare him off faster than before. He cursed the psychopath, feelings, and himself for being susceptible to them. He knew it meant a lot to John to know. He didn't like being kept out of the loop. Sherlock would regret speaking the truth, it was bluntly obvious. But this time he knew lying would have bigger repercussions.

"He didn't really."

"What?"

"If you want to know, let me speak John.- please," snapped the Detective awake of his outburst decided to soften the blow. Gathering all his energy he spoke. "Do you remember John that he said he would burn the heart of out me? Well, the thing is he found my heart. He knew how I felt towards you and decided to burn you. In doing this it… destroyed me. So, he never…" chocked Sherlock, "He never expected you to be found in time. He was hopping that you wouldn't be saved and I would be." Dropping his gaze to the floor Sherlock suddenly found the utmost interest in hospital tiles.

"Oh…"

_Oh_… It was his only response. His mind worked on full gear trying to decipher what this 'oh' meant. It didn't seem positive in any way. John probably wasn't impressed with the ability Sherlock had to affect him with deathly situations. It felt as if death was trying to wring all the hope out of his heart; his muscles contracting inside his chest harder with each passing seconded. _John was disappointed,_ panicked Sherlock, _he hates me_. Sherlock couldn't take another heart break.

"I'm sorry John."

"For what?"

"For dragging you into this, getting you hurt."

"It's not your fault Sherlock," retorted John.

Sherlock's eyes cautiously dragged themselves up towards John. Seeing the doctor in the state he was sent guilt toppling down on him. He'd hurt John, the only person he'd ever loved. Memories reeled inside his mind. The night of John's words slowly crept back into his palace threatening to wreck havoc. John didn't love him, he'd been disgusted with what Sherlock said. The pain of Johns admission dispensed a new adversity for him to tow around. Just one more demon to control shouldn't be to much of a challenge, should it? Although, the new found heart ache replenished itself every time he saw, heard, smelt, or thought of the doctor. Sherlock couldn't seem to pull himself away from him despite all this. Loosing John was to much. Summing a conclusion, he supposed Love and death would have to walk hand in hand. For he wouldn't leave his doctor.


	18. Cross Your Heart and Hope to Live

**A/N:** More Angst! Sadly, sooner or later I will have to give Sherlock and John a bonding moment. Is it bad I enjoy their pain? haha, hopefully not... Sorry it's short, I hope you like it. Thanks for everything my dear readers! ;)

* * *

Chapter Eighteen: Cross your heart and hope to live.

Two Days Later:

"He won't talk," Stammered Mycroft.

"Sherlock?" Questioned Lestrade. He'd just stopped in to see how the two men were doing. By the sounds of it things weren't looking to perky.

"Yeah. Ever sense Sherlock was reunited with John in the hospital he hasn't talked to anyone other than John."

"Not even you?"

"Unfortunately no. He wont spare a word for even his brother."

"Does John know why he wont talk to anyone?"

"Not that I know of." The government official looked up at Lestrade. His mask slipping from his face sadness shinned through the cracks. "He also refuses to leave Johns bedside. Just an hour ago the doctors had to sedate him to get him back in bed. Sitting in that plastic visitors chair was hardly a good thing after the traumatic events that occured."

"I see. How is he now?"

"Fine I suppose. He's sleeping for the moment. Most likely he'll try and make a brake for it to Johns room later."

Lestrade nodded in acknowledgement. He was slightly awestruck by the amount of feelings the Holmes man was letting in on him. From what he'd understood of this family, it was a greatly rare occurrence.

"How's John?"

"His wounds are healing; physically he's doing well." Mycroft motioned towards John's door as he spoke. "Although, his mental state is a bit on the rickety side right now. Only time will tell how well he recovers from the event. You can see him if you'd like. I'm assuming that's why you came here."

"Well, yes." Lestrade started for John's room turning around right before entering. "Are you alright Mycroft?"

"Of course." He responded in an appalled fashion.

Snicking to himself, Lestrade humored in the fact how alike the two Holmes brothers really were. Pulling open the door to his friends temporary sanctuary, he stepped inside.

* * *

"Hey John. How ya' doing?" Questioned the DI pulling up the now vacant visitors chair to John's bedside.

"Alright, the food is god awful though."

A grin slowly crept onto Lestrade's face. "Maybe i'll have bake you something. She sends her best regards and is sorry that she hasn't been in here sooner."

"Aah..." Sighed John.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Are you okay?"

"I already told you i'm fine."

"Yes but I can tell that it's a lie. I just want you to know that i'm here if you want to talk."

John didn't respond and Lestrade said nothing more. Instead the two men feel into a comfortable silence as they listened to the rhythmic sounds of the heart rate monitor. Each consumed in their own thoughts. John's mind finally free from the horrors of Moriarty. Lestrade's presence a reassurance that he would be alright. The quick thought of safety jarring a thought inside his mind.

Sherlock hadn't saved him.

Lestrade was the one who'd burst in through the doors followed by paramedics. He'd been the one that saved him from the cold depths of hell. Sherlock had just been drug down with him; fallen into the clasp of Moriarty. He'd prayed so hard for his friend to come save him but it never happened.

"Lestrade."

"Yes John?"

"You saved me- Thank you."

"It's my job. But your welcome."

"Lestrade... Sherlock didn't save me."

"Well he..." Started Lestrade until John interrupted him.

"I hoped so hard that he'd come through those doors, coat billowing behind him. I hoped he'd have a plan to get me out of there. But he didn't. I always thought he could beat Moriarty but this time he couldn't. Lestrade, he could get me again. Sherlock won't be able to help me if he ever wanted to."

"John." Assured Lestrade in his comforting officer voice. The tone he'd used on tons of trauma victims. "If it wasn't for Sherlock we never would have found you."

"I could have died."

"Yes, and so could have Sherlock. John, he put his life on the line for you."

"He does that for the thrill."

"Are you seriously doubting how much that man cares for you?" questioned Lestrade. "For Christ sake John! Can't you see he loves you. After everything he's done for you? Did you know he's been refusing to talk to anyone except for you sense you two got here?"

"No..."

"Well it's true."

"Lestrade." Spoke John again using the mans name as some sort of comforting ground to cling to.

"Yes?"

"Sherlock told me something. He told me I wasn't supposed to live."

"Bloody hell?" Exclaimed the DI.

"He said that Moriarty wanted me dead."

"And whys that? You're hardly Sherlock."

"No, but i'm his heart." John informed a sullen look plastered on his face. "And he want's to burn the heart out of Sherlock."


	19. Memories

**A/N ** I'm so incredibly sorry! I've had a lot of family drama and it's been hard to write with it all. But hopefully it's mostly blown over. So I'm sorry for the slow updates. I hope you enjoy the next chapter. :D

**Warnings: **mentions of drugs, death and self harm**.**

* * *

Chapter Nineteen: Memories

"Sherrinford! Mycroft! Look what I've found." The young Sherlock cried radiating excitement.

"What is it Sherlly?" Questioned Sherrinford.

"It's a Lepus Curpaeums. Also known as a rabbit." Sherlock poked at the dead animal with a stick. "It got hit by a car."

"Let's not play with rode kill Sherlly. You'll bring home some disease." Sneered Mycroft jokingly.

The youngest Holmes looked up at Mycroft sticking out his tongue. "I'd be sure to infect you first."

Sherlock looked back down at the carcass to give it one last prob to infuriate Mycroft's slight mysophobia. As his eyes retuned to the rabbit remains what lie in the road was nothing close to resembling a rabbit corpse. Instead lie Sherrinford. His body dismembered from the trains impact. Suddenly everything shifted to the day on the tracks. He could hear Mycroft's accusations taunting him:

_"He's… dead and it's all your fault," Mycroft accused. "If you had been smart enough, you would have noticed the damn train!"_

Looking up at his brother dread clasped his breath restricting him air. His face was morphing into John's. The tall pudgy features of his brother shifting into short stocky doctor. His face was stern and appalled.

"You kill everyone Sherlock and I'm next. You're such a freak." Snapped John. His face fuming in vexation.

Sherlock's breathing becoming a necessity until he snapped. Bright light flooded his vision as he lunged forward. His arms failed him as he tried to escape. Clasps gnawed at his wrists once again. His chest heaved in oxygen he himself had deprived himself of. His whole body ached from the trauma he'd relived. His body quivered with each unconfined feeling and memory. Leaning back in the back his body felt cold at the reminiscence.

* * *

He'd welcomed death. Being enclosed in a casing of silence and tranquility seemed like paradise. There would be no one to bother him about frivolous things. No Mycroft to criminate him. He was free of mummy and father's mourning. Every night he could hear mummy weeping in the parlor. Father was never the same, he was hardly home anymore. But Mycroft had changed for the worst. His brother was no longer loving, caring or protective. He'd placed all blame of Sherinford's death. Every time he'd pass his brother in their mansion halls, Mycroft would whisper one word to him:

_Murderer_.

The pain never went away. It was always there lurking in the depths of Sherlock's mind. Until he'd learned to create his mind place upon age 14, he was finally able to compile some kind of order to his feelings. But It didn't last. Nothing ever seemed to last for him. Shortly after after he'd regained composure of his feelings, hidden the cutting, he'd found another escape. Of course these were his drugs; the only thing he could seem to confide in. Sherlock was itching for his unquestioning needle. Snapping his eyes open he was once again acquainted with the hospital. The tremors has slowly subsided only leaving goose bumps laminated all over his body. Red marks were carved into his wrists from his new bindings. The itch to shot up unbearable, the need flowing through his veins.

"Old habits are hard to break arn't they, brother." Questioned a presence lurking from in the doorway.

Shrinking back into the mattress Sherlock couldn't help but suppress himself as much as possible. With every feature he could see of Mycroft was another reminder of the past being dug up. Every bad word and hurtful action were being resurfaced. The detective deflated further into the mattress. Painful memories bombarding the detective. What could possibly be stopping Mycroft from lashing out now? It would only be logical for him too do it now, with Sherlock at his weakest.

"Still refusing to talk I see. You will talk to me at one point. Weather it be to ask to visit John or for that fix your itching for, you'll speak." Mycroft smirked sauntering out of the room. "Goodbye Sherlly."

Weather it be the end of Sherlock, he would not let his brother feel unmistaken. Sherlock wouldn't crumple to trivial matter such as those.

* * *

"John." Tested Mycroft leaning into his room.

"Yes."

"I have an update on Sherlock as requested."

"Oh, and how is he?"

"Nothing you should fret about. He should be fine physically, just some emotional things he needs to overcome. Also, he still won't talk."

"Should I go talk to him?"

"No, no. We mustn't encourage my brother's juvenile behavior. He's just being stubborn."

"If you're sure." John replied feeling the unease sift into his statement.

"John, you must focus on getting yourself better. I must be off, things to attend too." With that Mycroft left.

John didn't believe Mycroft in the slightest. A silent Sherlock wasn't unusual, but in a hospital it was. Stretching over to the nurse call button John let his finger dance over it before finally pressing it. Moments later a nurse entered the room.

"Hi John I'm nurse Brenda, is everything alright?"

The nurse looked fairly knew. Good too, easier to con.

"I'm feeling quite restless and I'd like to visit my friend across the hall. I was wondering if you could help me into a wheel chair. I can make it from there."

"I'm not so sure..."

"Don't worry, I'm a doctor. I won't do anything foolish. If anything goes wrong I'll call you."

"Well... I suppose. But I will push you to your friends room."

Brenda helped John into the wheel chair. The seated position was incredibly straining on his Injurys but he pushed the pain aside. Entering Sherlock's room he saw the brunette cowering under the sheets cradling himself. His long lanky arms strapped down to the sides of the bed, his bindings chewing his wrists.

"Sherlock?" Asked John tentatively.

The detectives eyes popped open. His orbs clouded among the beat red whites of his eyes. _He'd been crying_. A single tear was left in solitude perched on his check. Slowly John's hands grazed his check removing the single drop of sadness. A timid smile spread across Sherlock's face, barley visual to John.

"What's wrong?" Cooed John.

Locking eyes with the doctor he replied: "Everything."


	20. Au revoir

**A/N**:I feel incredibly nasty writing this chapter, but I hope it's a good as angst and drama can get. I don't know a whole lot about drug use, so I use Google to find information. Comments and ideas are always welcome my friends. ;) Thanks for reading and everything else fabulous you do. It means the world to me!

**Warnings: **Drug use

* * *

Chapter Twenty: Au revoir

_"What's wrong?" Cooed John._

_Locking eyes with the doctor, he replied: "Everything._

* * *

John was astounded. He hadn't expected Sherlock to admit to not being okay. It was very unlike his friend witch only worried him more.

"What do you mean everything?" Asked John.

Sherlock's lips parted in effort to talk, but his words were slow to come out. Minutes later he responded. "I meant exactly what I said John. You asked me what was wrong and I answered; everything."

"Alright. Would you like to talk about it?"

"Not especially," he snipped at John.

He was still there. John was relieved to see Sherlock's personality lashing out even though it wasn't in the healthiest form.

"I'll be here if you ever want to vent. And weather or not you like it Sherlock, you're going to have to sooner or later."

Sherlock snorted in response: "That'll be the day. Feelings aren't something I've had much luck with. But anyways, how are you John?"

John felt a pang of guilt sliced into John. It was his fault that Sherlock hadn't had much successful feelings. He watched Sherlock try and adjust in his bed. His arms restricted him from moving around very far. The brunette tugged against his restraints trying to discover a comfortable position. His long and lanky body was forced into submission by the cuffs. Sherlock's body looked awkward and foreign in the hospital bed.

Evading Sherlock's change in topic, John spoke: "I'm sorry Sherlock."

He saw the detectives eyebrows furrow in puzzlement. "For what?"

"For hurting you, for what I said. I wasn't thinking straight. Sarah had just broken up with me, and It seemed like you were just trying to give me a hard time."

"You don't need to make excuses for what you did."

"It's not an excuse…"

"You shouldn't be in here John. I can tell you're in pain." Interrupted Sherlock

"It's nothing I can't handle. I wanted to see how you were doing and talk."

"You could have asked someone instead of troubling yourself over me."

John gazed up at Sherlock. His eyes were a stormy gray; a battle of emotions. "Do you believe that I think so little of you Sherlock?"

"I…don't understand."

Of course he doesn't. He doubted the man would ever understand human emotions. But then again, he had proven John wrong before. John placed his hand on top of Sherlock's nimble ones. Curling his fingers so they intertwined Sherlock's, he couldn't help but notice how puzzle like they were. They fit together so perfectly. Sherlock's eyes had also been drawn to their embrace. Squeezing his friends palm he started to talk.

"You're my best friend Sherlock and when Mycroft told me you were still being quite, inside a hospital, I began to worry. He said it was nothing to become distressed about, but I wasn't going to take any chances. That's why I came, I was worried. I've never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted any of this to happen and I can seem to shake that it's my entire fault. If I hadn't freaked out back at Baker Street, then maybe we'd be alright."

"John… It's never your fault. Don't think that." Sherlock squeezed John's hand in reassurance.

Two Hours Later:

John had fallen asleep in his wheel chair. He knew John would be stiff and in pain when he woke up, but he didn't have the heart to have him moved back into his own room. It was undoubtedly selfish, but at that moment Sherlock didn't care. He had John be his side and didn't want to let him go. He was so peaceful when he slept. The wrinkles possessing John's face when he was stressed were gone. He looked so much younger. The moonlight shinned in from the window dancing across his features.

"Excuse me, ?" A nurse questioned walking into the room.

"I thought I asked to not be disturbed." Retorted Sherlock.

"Yes, but I had some medication and fluids that needs to be administered. Also, a gift was left for you." He watched as she placed the box on the table beside him.

"What kind of medication?"

"We were instructed to take you off Fentanyl and to put you on something that's not an opioid."

"Of course," snorted Sherlock.

As soon as the nurse finished switching bags of painkillers, fluids, and left, Sherlock snatched the present off the table. It was nicely wrapped, shinny red wrapping paper, and heavy in weight. Tearing the ends of the paper open Sherlock slid the box out. Horror surged through him. In his hands was his box. His beautiful oak box filled with his tools. His hands froze Dropping the box into his lap. His breath began to quicken in pace from panic. Moriarty did this. He was bringing up his past, his failures, and mocking him.

A woozy sensation began to flood him. Then it hit him, the medication. The nurse had changed the painkillers alright. It was now an opiate, and one he knew very well; Cocaine. The familiar rush was plunging its way through his system. The liquid was as crisp and alluring as ever; bringing him pure ecstasy. Sherlock knew he should turn off the machine, but the demand for the blissful stimulant was overtaking him. Relaxing into the mattress Sherlock let out an exhale letting the drugs take over.

An hour later:

"Ugh"

Sherlock didn't understand. One moment he was high on life with the bliss of cocaine, the next he was withering in pain on his mattress. His arms strained against the bed frames as he tried to curl around his torso.

"Sherlock? Sherlock what's wrong?" Pealing his eyes open he saw John and a nurse standing above. Pain etched on his friends face. Their body's swam in front of him. "Sherlock answer me!"

"Grr… It hurts John."

"Where does it hurt?"

"Abdomen."

"Where you were stabbed?"

"It hurts John!" moaned Sherlock.

Relief began to engulf him. Pealing his eyes open he saw the nurse from earlier increasing the infusion pump. Slowly the world swayed slowly in front of him. His head spun in search for John. But his doctor wasn't there.

"Stop," groaned Sherlock.

"Sherlock Honey, you're in pain. The only way to fix that is with more pain killers, right?" Purred the nurse.

"No, I want John."

"Sorry Dear. Your doctor pulled some of his stitches while trying to help you. Looks like you're on your own for awhile."

"What did you do to me?" The words seethed out of his barred teeth.

"What would be the fun if I told you? Now I must be off, Au revoir ."


End file.
